Harry Potter and The Halcyon Phantasmagoria by PhantasmagoricBlade
by zwpfef
Summary: It was all too perfect. A whole new world, and he was naive enough to hope that it would be any any less screwed up than the old one? Too bad he woke up, or he might have even never had to deal with all of the trouble he was now fighting to survive in.
1. Temporary 1st Chapter

Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria by Phantasmagoric Blade

IMPORTANT: THIS IS NOT MY WORK. I TAKE NO CREDIT FOR THIS FIC.

Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. This fic belongs to Phantasmagoric blade, but I've noticed it is no longer available, as well as the author's entire profile. This is a reupload of the work.

Tags: H/F

Chapter: 1

'The Resurrection'

Every person, at some time in their life, has felt shivers.

Shivers of cold. Shivers of anticipation. Shivers of disgust. Shivers of excitement. Shivers of great and terrible fear.

Sometimes, people shivered for no reason at all. No discernable reason, that is. Just a brief tremor, that leaves them the same afterwards, and wondering what would make them tremble in such a manner.

And in an almost deserted cemetery, in Little Hangleton, Harry James Potter shivered.

This could have been attributed to several things. One, the dense, unnatural fog that covered the dour location in swirling pockets of dampness. It was rather cold, and Harry had naught but a faded red long sleeve shirt and jeans. He could feel the goosebumps, hard on his skin.

Or, it could have been the tombstone he was tied rather roughly to, the harshly hewn stone letters of TOM RIDDLE SR. digging into his shoulder blades.

It may have been fear, mostly of the many Death Eaters that began to pop into the clearing, as the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvalo Riddle Jr., arisen from his potion of macabre sacrifices, not the smallest being Harry's blood, taken from a cut that still stung now, called to him his closest and most powerful followers.

Harry could hear him dimly through the pounding of the blood in his ears.

"Malfoy...Goyle...Crabbe..." The hissing voice buzzed in his ear, as he tried to shake off the pulsating migraine he had suddenly developed, like a jackhammer on both his temples. "...-have refused my call...rewarded beyond their wildest-..."

Harry groaned quietly.

His vision of the graveyard, dim as it was, was suddenly obscured by a sense of vertigo and flashing lights which blinded him for a moment. He swung his head fitfully, as his brow accumulated sweat as if he had suddenly contracted a violent fever.

He felt the ropes against his arms, and briefly writhed in their containment, the sense of complete helplessness dominating every other instinct he had for a moment, with total panic.

Luckily, the ropes fell away, cut by invisible blades, and he sucked a breath in quickly in relief, drawing his knees to his chest as his heartbeat gradually began to slow.

His reprieve was short lived.

A short, straight stick fell in front of him. His wand. He snatched it quickly, attention very quickly diverted as a voice cold as a glacier spoke in high tones.

"I assume that Dumbledore has taught you how to duel, Potter." Voldemort drawled, his own bone white wand held in a loose grip.

Harry stared up at the Dark Lord. Even clothed in a simple robe as he was, hands and legs bare, he was still utterly terrifying.

Red eyes narrowed in annoyance.

With almost lazy flick of a wand, Harry was thrown a good foot in the air, where he uncoiled in surprise, and landed shakily on his feet.

There was a fair bit of laughter around the small circle of dark wizards as Harry wind-milled his arms frantically to keep from falling down.

The motion wasn't any good for the throbbing headache, not even going into the matter of the piercing pain from his scar. If he touched it, Harry would bet his Firebolt that it had broken open and was wet with blood.

Harry regained his balance, his condition not much improved by this, as he raised one of his hands to his temples, his head swaying drunkenly.

A blow, like a harsh shove, hit him in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

Voldemort's face was one of perverse glee, very similar to that of a young boy pulling the legs off of an insect, as he jabbed his wand again, sending Harry careening back once more.

"Look at him! The great Harry Potter! Boy-Who-Lived!" Voldemort cackled, in tandem with jeers and taunts from the Death Eaters. "Look at his terrifying powers!" Voldemort announced in a mocking voice, sending Harry back in a lopsided spin, like a drowsy ballerina, with another harmless concussive blast on his collarbone.

Harry groaned, before his back hit a rather tall tombstone, in the classic shape of a Celtic cross. He slid down it, his shirt riding up, and the stone scraping red marks and small slivers of skin from his back, as he sat in the mud, heedless of the location or circumstance.

It felt like the end of the world, to Harry. His darkening vision was punctuated by flashes, while his body shook with terrible small convulsions. He tasted bile and something coppery and metallic in the back of his throat, the latter he dimly recognized as blood.

It felt like his skin, his muscles, were burning, like some terrible imp of torture had left coals smoking and sizzling in every joint and fiber of his body. The very ground beneath him seemed to shake, something many others would describe as shell-shock.

He felt something wet on his cheeks, as the front of his shirt was suddenly hoisted up by a single, unnaturally powerful hand, and reacquainted with the hard stone of the cross as he was slammed again against its rugged surface.

"Don't pass out on me now, Potter." A serpentine face, all flat and angular planes with slit nostrils and burning red eyes, invaded Harry's dull vision. "Oh..." A cold, thin finger traced along Harry's cheek. "What's this?"

Harry heard the great laughter of the Death Eaters, as Voldemort turned to his followers, presenting the object on his finger to their inspection.

"Look! Potter cries tears of blood! Methinks our very presence has made him ill, Milord!" One voice called, jeering calls of agreement and dark amusement soon following it.

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed, right along with them.

Harry raised one feeble arm, and wiped away the sticky wet substance, the shining red on his digit surprising even him.

That...that isn't what's supposed to come out...Harry's brain processed dimly. It's too red...much too red...supposed to be clear...too red...

An intruding, hard thing under Harry's chin interrupted his broken thoughts. Wand...He belatedly realized. Wandtip...

"Pathetic. Disappointing." Voldemort spat. "That's all you ever were, Potter. A failure. A disgrace. Just like your parents!"

The noise faded. The pounding ceased. The ground steadied. The world became clear.

All on the utterance of those words, the world became focused, too focused, completely silent for a single moment in Harry's life.

Stillness. A world of stillness. He could see their mouths moving, Voldemort calling back to his followers to watch closely the demise of the Boy-Who-Lived, their cheers and shouts of approval, but he could hear no noise.

His hands, moving slowly as if through water, reached up and grasped Voldemort by the forearms as his vision filmed in crimson, and the fire in his muscles turned to strength.

"Don't talk about MY PARENTS!" Harry roared.

Voldemort roared something back, but it was not words, not of any tongue that Harry knew. Suddenly, he recognized the language. It was the sound of pain.

Harry felt the grip on his shirt intensify, before he was flung bodily across the courtyard, actually bouncing once from the force of the toss.

He had scrambled to his feet in an instant. He was no longer weak.

Instead, there was a burning fire in his blood, and a roaring in his brain, an inhumanly loud sound Harry would closest equate to the sound ten thousand chainsaws would make, revved all at the same time.

There was a bellowing pulse, like a monumentally huge heart beating, and his vision went black for a single second, before returning, showing him the visage of Voldemort and his followers approaching, wands drawn and expressions thunderous and wrathful.

He had to do something, had to act, had to sate the scorching power in his bones that demanded in voices more ancient than man itself to be used.

Some voice, some flicker of rationality, some brief spurt of neurons in his adrenaline drenched brain allowed him a brief moment of horror and confusion.

What's happening to me? His flicker screamed, before disappearing, in just more red, just so, so much more red.

Red.

Red.

Red!

RED!

His last sight was of his own hands, cupping his face, burning with unmistakable red.

The giant's heart boomed once more, before Harry's vision, Harry's entire world, turned to red.

Several minutes later, a golden cup and a shirtless messy-haired boy appeared on the green in front of crowds of anxious spectators with an almost imperceptible 'pop'.

Naturally, there was quite a commotion.

Harry awoke in a hospital bed.

He stared blankly at the ceiling for one moment, counting the bumps on the plaster for a moment, before he sat up, reaching one bandaged hand behind him and adjusting his pillow to support his back.

He very calmly surveyed the size of the room, taking in the small nightstand and several chairs arrayed by his bedside, along with the long ajar window with a view to a sandy beach and afternoon sun before deducting this wasn't the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

He stared at his hands, wrapped heavily in white bandages and cotton, and completely numb, before glancing around, looking for some method with which to call a nurse.

He found it in a switch by his bedside, with a small picture of a stick woman with a red cross on her hat above it. He pressed it, using his elbow, since he doubted mussing with his hands would be very smart at this point in time.

He had almost thirty second to wait, before a nurse bustled in, a bright smile on her face. If possible, her smile seemed to get even wider at the sight of him, staring dispassionately back at her.

"Well, well, , you're up! Even faster than we expected, too." She added, almost playfully.

Harry wordlessly held up his hands. The nurse smiled, and unlatched the clipboard Harry noticed attached to the end of his bed.

"Can't feel them? Don't worry about it, dearie." She flapped a lazy hand. "That's normal, under all the Numbing Solution we have on those bandages. You wouldn't want to feel them right now, trust me."

"...Why not?" Harry asked. His voice was a little rough, so he hurriedly cleared his throat.

"Mother Mary's chickens, don't you remember?" The nurse seemed genuinely surprised. "You burned your hands something fierce. Nasty. You should've seen when we brought you in." The nurse tutted and started pulling his blankets and sheets straight.

"...How bad was it?" He asked, after a moment's consideration.

The nurse gave him a very stern eye. "You really want to know?"

After a moment's deliberation, Harry nodded firmly. "Yes." He answered, wincing when his voice wavered slightly.

"Right down to the bone. The reason you can't move them fingers of your right now is because there's nothin' to move'em with. Almost all the muscles were charred away."

A bit of a panic attack hit Harry. "I'm going to be alright, right? I mean, these, this-" Harry held up his dead hands, which refused to move even as Harry willed them to. "They'll get better, right?"

"What, those? Oh, ya-" The nurse scoffed. "They'll be fine. The only danger was removing the burning muscles before they started melting the bone. If that'd happened, then we would've had to vanish the bones your hand and Skele-grow'em all back. Now that would'a been right unpleasant."

"Oh, good." Harry sighed in relief. The panicking fears choking his throat, like loss of Quiddich and holding his wand and hence, magic, gently faded away, to just the racing pulse in his veins.

"Well, everything seems to be fine; We'll keep you here a couple more days, since regrowing muscles takes much longer than bones, don't you know. Is there anything else you need?"

"Er...no, thanks. Is Professor Dumbledore here?" Harry asked anxiously.

All the things that had happened, Voldemort's return, Cedric's death, the Tri-Wizard Cup as a portkey, even that strange thing that had happened when Harry had gotten angry. If anyone knew or needed to know about them, it would be him.

"Are you sure? I could run down to lobby and pick you up a magazine, if you like?" The nurse tried again.

"No thank y-"

"What about some food? I'm pretty sure I can sneak a few trays from the nurse's lounge. A growing boy's got to eat, and the regular St. Mungo's food tastes horrid." The nurse seemed almost annoyed.

St. Mungo's. So that was where he was.

Harry shook his head. "I don't-"

"I could drop by your flat, pick up a few things you want. You have any pets? Where do you live?" She asked, seeming almost anxious.

"I'm fine!" Harry hollered, finally a bit annoyed, and a bit amused by the thought of a witch dropping by Privet Drive. "I don't need anything, now can you please go get Professor Dumbledore?"

The nurse blinked, like a startled sheep, then frowned and turned. "Fine, then." She replied, a bit waspishly, before shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Harry sighed explosively and leaned back against the pillow, glaring at the door. Honestly, what was the deal with her? First she's practically jumping to his demands, and then she's acting like a sulky teenager who couldn't get permission to go to the prom.

He sat, propped up against the bed frame, staring at his hands, vainly willing them to move, until he heard the latch of the door move, and his gaze snapped upwards.

Dumbledore closed the door quietly. Today, he wore robes of dark and navy blue, looking every bit the image of a wizard from the Muggle stories, save for his hat which he had removed in order to get through the door-frame.

"It is a great relief to see you are well, my boy." Dumbleodre intoned, smiling as he Conjured a plush red cushion, and placed in the chair he lowered himself into.

Harry, of course, all but leapt down his throat with excitement and anxiety.

"He's back! Voldemort's back! I saw him with my own eyes!" Harry blurted quickly, leaning forward.

The bushy white eyebrows on the ancient wizard's forehead furrowed into a worried V. "Is he, now?" He replied softly. "I suspected as much."

"Yes! And-And-" Harry could find no place to begin. "Maze-Ced-portkey-!"

Dumbledore seized the word he could understand, and nodded sagely. Harry fell silent as the Headmaster opened his mouth.

"Ah, yes, the matter of the Cup. That, Harry, I am afraid is the work of Crouch." He informed the younger wizard gravely.

"Crouch? But he disappeared into the forest. You found him?" Harry asked, frowning. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, but Mr. Crouch Sr. is not the Crouch as to whom I refer. I am speaking of his son, Bartemius Crouch Jr.." Dumbledore corrected, folding his hands in his lap. "I believe you witnessed his trial in my memories."

Harry nodded, recalling the courtroom and black and white scenes he had witnessed through Dumbledore's Pensieve. "Wait, isn't he in Azkaban? No, wait, didn't he die in Azkaban?" Harry asked, still rather discombobulated.

"I'm afraid not..." Dumbledore began solemnly.

Harry listened in complete silence, as Dumbledore described in entirety the plot of Barty Crouch Jr.. How his own mother had sacrificed herself for him, taking his place with Polyjuice Potion. How Crouch had escaped the clutches of his father by help of the house-elf, Winky, and then shortly followed to kidnap-or replace, was a better term-Mad-Eye Moody.

Harry, to his surprise, actually found some empathy with the escaped convict. After all, hadn't he been basically a slave to the Dursleys every summer, and the first nine or so years of his life, when he had first been able to perform chores.

He honestly couldn't blame Crouch Jr. for hating his father. As much as he attempted to totally despise the man who had sent him into the mess of the Little Hangleton graveyard, he found the worm of damnable empathy just crawl back into the mix.

"How did you know, sir?" Harry asked, after a moment's contemplation of this strange feeling, of hate and compassion mixed together.

"The Cup, Harry." Albus replied, smiling gently. "I simply followed the trail of magic, straight to the person who had made it into a portkey. How do you think the Ministry discovers and stops those who create illegal ones?"

"...Right." Harry muttered, turning back to stare in front of him. Harry could understand logic as well as the next bloke.

"Harry." The unusually stern voice drew his attention like a moth to a lamp. Harry turned, and resisted the urge to gulp.

Before him, stood not the kindly Professor, who students admired and went to whenever they needed advice or a pat on the back.

Before him sat Albus Dumbledore, Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot, legendary wizard and the only one the Dark Lord Voldemort had ever feared.

It was a truly strange and terrifying thing, how a slight straightening of the back, darkening of the face and shifting of the posture, could turn the man Harry looked up to as the pinnacle of kindness and understanding into a harsh, unforgiving warrior without a shred of mercy.

"I need to know what happened in the graveyard. I'm sorry, but I believe I need to perform a process known as Legimency upon you. If you wish, I can explain it for you, but it is absolutely imperative that I do this."

It was like standing in the path of a avalanche. There was no stopping. There was running, though.

"P-Please do." Harry quickly affirmed. Dumbledore nodded.

"It is a very complicated branch of magic, so I shall stick to the specifics. I will be going in and viewing your memories for myself." Dumbledore stated shortly.

"So,...sort of like mind-reading?" Harry asked cautiously. That sounding like the sort of thing he had hoped didn't exist in the Wizarding World, when he first stepped into it.

"Not anywhere near it. I can only look at your memories, Harry, nothing more. The reason I am reluctant to do this is that it is a most obscene invasion of your privacy, which I fear is unavoidable." The Headmaster's voice was touched with true regret. "It may be uncomfortable, but I can obtain the clearest memory this way, perhaps clearer than you yourself can recall."

Harry felt a twinge of gratitude towards the Headmaster for his concern. He took a deep breath, and firmed himself.

"I'm ready." He announced, rather proud of his unwavering voice.

"Very well." Dumbledore drew his wand, and pointed it to Harry's forehead. "Legimens." He intoned.

Harry inhaled sharply as a sense of vertigo and lancing, cold pain overtook him. The room spun, and soon he was encased in a whirlwind flood of memories and pain.

He saw it like a video fast forwarding, almost. He saw his point of view rushing through the maze. The pain in his temple gave another painful throb, and Harry gritted his teeth. Get the fuck on with it! He thought, as strongly as he could in the hopes that Dumbledore could hear him while doing this memory searching thing.

Thankfully, it seemed to work, as the memory blurred even faster, past the Screwts, fake dementor, finding Fleur, the Beauxbatons Champion, under attack by Viktor Krum, and saving her. Riddling with the Sphinx, fighting the giant Acromantula alongside Cedric.

Just as the spider fell, the memory slowed down to normal speed. The pain increased, and Harry felt himself groaning lowly, almost inaudibly. The image rippled, like a surface of water when touched.

Be calm, Harry. The more agitated you become, the harder it becomes to view the memory. Dumbledore's soft, apologetic tone rang out like a distant echo in the memory.

You're not the once feeling like a bloody axe is lodged in your cranium! Hurry up! Harry snarled.

There was no answer, but the image sped up a little, until Cedric and Harry were standing in the graveyard.

The cold voice rang out.

"Kill the spare."

Green light flashed, and Cedric fell dead on the ground, and shortly after, Harry was Stunned and roped to the tombstone.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, but as hard as he could, he could not make himself not see the memory. He took as many deep, calming breaths as he could, feeling disconnected from his body, as if his eyes were simply floating in this memory cloud. It was very strange.

Try as he could, however, he could not ignore the pain. His jaw clenched tightly, refusing to let it interrupt Dumbledore's viewing. If he fucked it all up now, then they'd have to start all over again, and Harry did not under any circumstances want to go through this twice.

They came to the part where the strange sickness had overcome him, and image stopped.

Harry, are you calm? The Headmaster's gently rebuking voice came through again, in the watery echo.

Yes. That's just the memory. Harry replied, as evenly as he could, blinking the few tears of pain out of his 'eyes' quickly. It gets weirder, trust me.

The video memory resumed, just as Voldemort began to beat Harry back like a helpless, intoxicated doll. Harry felt his gut twist with guilt and shame at the ease with which he had been beaten, and forced himself to keep watching.

The minute that his vision filmed red, the memory did as well. Harry got the feeling that the recall had 'paused'.

What happened here? Dumbledore asked curiously.

I don't know...I just got really, really angry...furious beyond belief, and then suddenly, that red, and I woke up here. Can we stop, please? Harry begged, in a miserable tone he could not believe was coming out of his mouth.

I want to attempt to force through to this memory. Forgive me, but this will hurt.

No, DON'T!

An explosion of pain hit Harry like a grenade exploding in his ears, and he screamed. The red film flickered.

Harry saw brief flashes of memory previously blocked out. His hands, wreathed in fire. Angry, hissing voices. Black robes aflame.

Harry, you must control yourself! Dumbledore called sharply.

More memories. Crawling along the ground. His charred hands, reaching out to touch the cup. The blackened skin holding Cedric's hand.

Harry!

Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! Harry screamed.

The memories faded, and the world sucked away with a pop.

Harry found himself hunched over on the bed, his face red, and his throat hoarse, the screams and green flashes still dancing through his mind, his hands clenching the white sheets in an iron grip.

Dumbledore quietly replaced his wand in his robes, and folded his hands in his lap, a neutral expression on his face.

After a few seconds of Harry's wheezing panting, he saw fit to speak.

"I did say it might be uncomfortable." He offered, as a way of apology.

"Uncomfortable! It felt like a bloody explosion blowing my fucking brains out!" Harry snapped immediately.

"Language, Harry!" The Headmaster replied sharply, in a manner not too different from Hermione.

Harry cringed, and looked back down, letting his mouth hang open like a landed fish, sucking in air, thoroughly chastised.

"The pain was due to something that may please you, Harry." Dumbledore offered. "You seem to have some basic Occlumency built up."

Harry frowned. "Occlumency?" He asked.

"The opposite of Legimency, the art of defending your thoughts from attack." Dumbledore offered.

"Oh." Harry replied dumbly. He raised one thumb to knead his temple, helping spread the pain and even it out. "Is that common?"

"It fairly rare, but completely natural." Dumbledore assured the young boy. "It happens when a person is either very paranoid or has secrets they very dearly wish to keep. The mind...heaps up defenses, crude ones, to protect them subconsciously."

"So, I can protect my mind without learning this...Occlumency thing?" Harry asked, a bit hopeful.

"Sadly, no." Dumbledore chuckled. "Think of Occlumency like the making of walls in your mind. You have a pile of rocks, while a true Occlumens would have a straight stone wall. Do you understand?"

"...Sort of." Harry replied doubtfully. "So, it's like...the better or finer your wall is, the harder it is to get past?"

"Precisely, Harry." The ancient wizard agreed, with a smile.

For a moment, the only sound was Harry's almost normal paced breathing. Harry cocked his head.

"Er...Professor Dumbledore..." Harry asked, in a questioning tone.

"Yes, my boy?" He replied.

"That power...the flames...in the cemetery...do you know what that was? I mean, like...what happened?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"I have a theory." Intoned the Headmaster. "You see, Harry, our magic is very much linked to our emotions. I assume you went through the normal magical childhood? Strange occurrences, things you couldn't explain?"

"Yeah." Harry replied tersely, remembering several instances where he had been chased by Dudley and his gang, before Apparating away. Or when that frog suddenly got nailed to the door of a teacher he didn't like, without him touching it. Or talking to the Brazilian snake in the zoo, before shortly setting it loose.

"Those occurrences are referred to as accidental magic, magic you are unable to control. Now, if you'll recall, each time this occurred, you were strongly feeling a certain emotion. What was it? Fear? Anger? Happiness?" Dumbledore smiled as the light of understanding dawned in Harry's eyes.

"So...that thing in the graveyard...it was because I was angry?" Harry asked, a small tone of doubt in his voice.

"Not just angry, Harry." Dumbledore said solemnly. "Furious. Beyond yourself with rage. In addition, you were already sick, so this may have contributed to your rather powerful bout of what I believe to be accidental, wrath-driven magic."

To Harry, this explanation seemed to be a bit shaky. "Are you sure?" He asked, that doubt stronger.

"Fairly sure." Dumbledore offered. "And the important thing is, Harry, that you're safe now. All you have to do is avoid becoming as angry as you did in that cemetery."

"He insulted my parents." Harry replied quietly, and venomously. "I don't care if it's Voldemort or Merlin himself. No one insults my parents." The last was a bare hiss.

"Your defense of your parents is admirable, Harry, but I doubt they would want the simple mention of their memory to instill such a terrible rage in you, Harry." Dumbledore informed him gently, yet sternly. "You must promise me to keep your temper in check, lest another incident like that occur, and you damage more than simply your hands."

Harry stared at the bandaged lumps attached his wrists, and bit his lip as he overcame the urge to argue.

"I promise." He replied reluctantly. Dumbledore's face broke into an easy smile.

"Now, I believe that an old man has held you up long enough." Dumbledore offered, eyes twinkling. He placed it on the door handle and turned. "There is much better company waiting for your attention."

The door opened, revealing Ron and Hermione with teary eyes. She didn't wait a second shooting past the Headmaster to attach herself to Harry's midsection.

"Oh, Merlin, Harry, I was so worried!"

"Jeez, mate, you look like a bloody wreck."

Harry allowed himself a genuine smile as Dumbledore closed the door, leaving them to their small reunion.

The muscles regenerating were much worse than Skele-Grow. The most lovely and bitchy part about it was that they couldn't use any numbing solution; it'd negate the potion.

You would've thought they'd try to invent a separate numbing solution to circumvent that, but then again, Wolfsbane couldn't even be sweetened without losing it's effect. Harry gritted his teeth and simply bore through the worst of it, which basically felt like his digits and hand were on fire, like lava filling a mold, and you couldn't ignore it, because it was constantly but slowly tightening the tendons, so it was constantly shifting.

There were some upsides, however. The nurses, for one, seemed to wait on him hand and foot. He wasn't alone for a single second in that room.

He eventually learned that they would do things for him whether he liked it or not, from the amount of times they walked in with extra food, or beddings, or just asking if he wanted to.

So he told them. Sent them on errands, like servants. Harry felt a nasty twist in his gut every time he did, but he honestly couldn't take any more 'Is there anything else I can get you, Harry, dear?'.

It was like a trained team of Molly Weasleys. Very nurturing, and he honestly liked the Weasley matriarch and appreciated her kindness and generosity, but he could only take her in small doses. He had no idea what living with her year-round, fussing and suffocating you constantly would be like.

Horrid, most likely.

He couldn't honestly tell why the nurses' faces lit up so radiantly every time he gave up and made up something and pretended to want it, so they could go get it. He always made sure not to ask for something that costed money, because he had a sneaking suspicion they would actually buy it for him.

Then, there was the hospital stories. They would sit by him, in groups, trying to outdo one another with the best story of themselves excelling in some medical case or another, until a Healer managed to scatter them back to their respective tasks.

Harry always thoroughly thanked the Healer that did this. The stories were awfully boring, to tell the truth.

He was mildly horrified when some of the nurses actually began crying on the day of his release. He had had no idea they had gotten so attached to him.

When he finally managed to extricate himself from the nurses, with as many farewell cards bundled onto him as possible, he vowed never to get injured bad enough to get sent here ever again.

He was less scared at the end of the muscle regrowth potions than of the administering them.

Harry stepped off of the Hogwarts Express, grabbing his trunk and trolley, and Hedwig's cage, and piling it atop a bit sloppily, earning an indignant hoot and jab through the cage, which he winced at.

He was a bit sad he had missed the end of year speech, but he had only had time to grab his stuff from his room before having to run to catch the train. Dumbledore had assured him that Cedric's parents did not blame him for the incident, even though Harry had not had the chance to apologize to them himself.

Hermione was almost immediately in his arm as he stepped off the train, hugging him fiercely. He awkwardly patted her back as best as he could with a owl cage in one arm and trolley lever in the other.

She had been acting weird the whole train ride, fussing over Harry's arrangements with the Dursley's, asking how he had been being treated, insisting that he owl her should anything whatsoever out of the ordinary happen.

Along with that, Ron had been silent the whole train ride, staring at Harry with a mixture of what seemed to be awe and slight fear, of all things. He twitched every time Harry looked at him, and quickly agreed with anything he said.

Very queer.

Other than that, though, the train ride had been almost completely perfect. He had bought too many sweets (He really felt he needed to burn off some of the Tri-Wizard money, and giving it all away for no reason seemed pretty dumb, even to him), loading Ron up for the summer.

Malfoy hadn't even shown up to bother them! Harry had heard the door rattle once, but there had been no one there.

Hermione finally released him, staring at his face anxiously, biting her lip. "And you promise to owl me or call me-bollocks!" She suddenly screeched, digging in her bag frantically, making Harry jump and stare at her as if she had grown a second head.

Hermione never swore. Barely ever. Further proof that something was wrong. Harry, after a moment's consideration, wrote it off as stress and worry from the whole Tri-wizard incident.

She scribbled something quickly onto a piece of paper, before shoving it into on of his coat's breast pockets. Her hands lingered there for a moment longer than neccesary, before quickly returning.

"That's my phone number. And address. I forgot to give it to you." She smiled quickly, nervously. "So if anything seems bad, or you just don't want to stay there, you promise to call me?"

Harry smiled wearily. "Yes, Hermione, for the hundredth time, I will."

"Okay. Okay." She said quickly. She bit her lip. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me? I mean I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind at all letting you stay for the summer."

"Hermione, no, I already told you. If Professor Dumbledore says I have to stay at the Dursleys, I'll stay." Harry replied.

She sighed explosively. "Fine. Just-be sure, you know." She patted his breast pocket, where her phone number and address were sitting. She seemed direly serious.

"I know, Hermione." Harry replied, and once again, that relief shone in her eyes, like she had just been assured she wasn't dying.

She wrapped her arms around his neck one more time. This time, she seemed a lot more intense, squeezing as if she'd never let go.

"I'll miss you." She whispered in his ear, and Harry shivered. The voice was husky and breathy and decidedly not Hermione.

"Right, now I got to go, I'm taking the Knight Bus to home." He murmured. No response. "Er, come on now, Hermione." The arms squeezed tighter, and Harry saw many people passing along, mostly women, send glares and looks in their direction. This was a bit awkward.

"Hermione, let go." Harry ordered in a no-nonsense tone, and she released him after one last squeeze.

"Bye, Harry. You'll owl me, right? Maybe visit?" She asked, as if the latter were the greatest gift in the world. "Harry, you promise to owl me, right?"

"I promise. Bye Hermione. See you, Ron!" Harry called over, to where Ron was standing, a bit of a distance off from the two.

He jumped almost a foot in the air, before grinning and jerkily waving his hand in a goodbye, his eyes bulging slightly.

Harry hurried up the steps, just in case Hermione got some impulse to follow him. With the way she had been acting lately, he wouldn't be half surprised.

He noticed that as he made his way up the steps, he found eyes trailing him wherever he went. Some people would avert them if he made eye contact, some just stare right back. Some would even crane their head not to lose sight of him.

Harry found the whole thing decidedly creepy, so he hurried around the corner, and pulled out his wand, before sticking it out.

In a flash, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and the Knight Bus was standing before him, in all of it's double decked glory.

The doors folded open, and Stan Shunpike actually scrambled out of his seat, taking off his hat as if he were in Queen Elizabeth's presence.

"Bloody hell, it's you." He whispered. "Harry Potter."

"Yeah, I know." Harry replied, a bit annoyed with all of this strange behavior. "You're Stan Shunpike."

"You remember-...you remember my name?" Stan asked, a bare whisper.

"Course I do, now close the door." Harry snapped, now more than a bit fed up with this. He knew people would feel some sort of awe towards him, since he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and it had happened before, but Harry had never really found the attention very pleasant.

It was like they were trying to know what you were, not who you were.

"Oh-! Er, right away, sir." He stuttered, sitting down in his seat and pulling the door closed, before sitting stock straight and still, like some militia man. "I can take you anywhere you want, fast as a jippy. Our services are the best in England, nay, the country, and I assure you-!"

"Just take me to Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging." Harry grumbled, as he dug in his coat for his small sack of Galleons he had taken out for this purpose. "How much do I owe you?" Harry inquired, finally pulling it free of an inner coat pocket.

"What!" Stan asked, as horrified as if he had been asked to kill a baby. "No, no no no no no! You don't have to pay!"

"But I-!" Harry protested.

"No!" Stan replied sharply, pushing Harry gently back into the back of the bus, before shoving him gently into one of the seats. "You just sit right there-or do whatever you please-but you don't have to worry about payment."

"I have the money!" Harry argued, jingling the sack. "Hell, you can keep it as a tip!"

Stan, however, was having none of it, standing straight and thrusting his chin up, his eyes flickering down every several seconds, before flying away. "It is my utmost pleasure to take you anywhere you want, . I refuse to accept payment for doing myself a favor, since I'm-"

"Oh, fuck it all." Harry muttered in resignation. "Just take me to Privet Drive."

"Yes SIR, Mr. Harry Potter SIR!" He practically bellowed, mopping some sweat off of his forehead with a sleeve before quickly going back to drive.

Harry sighed, and kneaded his temple, doffing his coat and throwing it over one of the chairs.

The ride took several hours. Harry was not saved any annoyance, considering the way Stan yelled back and asked if Harry wanted to stop anywhere just about every twenty minutes. And if Harry didn't answer, like the time he moved to the top of the bus to avoid it, Stan would stop the bus and go up and ask him.

It was stupid, and bloody confusing. Everyone around him seemed to have done a complete 180 from how he knew them in the last twenty four hours.

When he stepped off the bus, he was sure he had had to assure Stan at least seventeen times that he was completely satisfied by the trip and nothing could have made it better.

The quiet and dark of Privet Drive were almost welcome after the long, hectic day. He poked one finger through the finger of Hedwig's cage, rubbing her downy feathers. She cooed affectionately and leaned in for better contact.

"Home sweet home. Or not. Eh, Hedwig?" Harry murmured softly.

He removed the finger, and rolled his trunk down the sidewalk and path to the door, with the large gilded 4 placed on it, the wheels making a clunk every time they met a break in the sidewalk tiles.

The door was unlocked, which he deducted after a quick jiggle of the knob. He turned it completely and let himself in.

"I'm home, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon." He announced, reverting to old habits naturally, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice quiet as he closed the door behind him.

A rather loud series of clatters and a large crash snapped Harry's head up.

His uncle and cousin, who had previously been sitting at the table, enjoying dinner, had gotten up so fast that they had knocked over their chairs, pressing themselves flat against the wall, their beady eyes fixed on him, practically bulging with unmistakable terror.

To the left, Petunia had dropped the dish she had been scrubbing with a washcloth, in favor of staring at him, her mouth slightly ajar and her eyes wide. She hadn't even looked down at the crash, despite the fact that the dish she dropped was a present from her grandmother, which Harry had learned though numerous death threats made should he ever break it.

He stared right back.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Wrong? WRONG! Nothing is wrong. Is anything wrong?" Vernon quickly jabbered. His head snapped to the side to regard his son. "DUDLEY! Go and check if something is wrong!"

Dudley nodded jerkily, before bounding down the hallway, heedless of the fact that there was nothing wrong or the fact that he wouldn't even know where to specifically look. Harry got the feeling he was just trying to put distance between them.

"Oka-a-a-ay..." Harry said slowly, his eyes wide. "Aunt Petunia."

Time to test this.

She jumped slightly, before her cheeks colored slightly. "Yes, Harry?"

The overly sweet tone made him shiver. "I want get contact lenses. Could you schedule a appointment?" Harry asked slowly.

She practically broke her neck nodding, before she leaped to the telephone, her hands hurriedly scanning the phonebook.

"Wait, fuck that." Harry suddenly snapped. Aunt Petunia stopped dead, and Vernon, who had been sidling along the wall in the same direction Dudley had disappeared, froze like a statue.

There was no reprimand for the foul language. Nothing.

Harry felt his pulse racing. "I want laser-eye corrective surgery. I heard it's much more effective."

"Absolutely. Anything you want, Harry." Vernon quickly blathered, before shutting up when Harry glanced at him.

Harry. Vernon Dursley, in all of Harry's eleven years in his presence, had never once called Harry by his first name.

"Uncle Vernon...the surgery costs several thousand pounds." Harry reiterated his request.

"It's fine, don't worry about a thing." He quickly assured Harry, disgusting flop sweat forming on his brow.

"Several thous-"

"IT'S FINE!" Vernon roared. Then, he almost squeaked, and pushed himself harder against the wall. "I'm-I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to yell." He quickly chattered.

"Absolutely. Yes. Harry, you can have anything you want." Petunia assured him sweetly.

And that was when Harry knew the shit had hit the fan.

And in France, on a stormy night in a tower connected to a castle many times referred to by it's owners as the Forsaken Nursery, it did.

On the Nursery, sat many strange, bulbous iron rods. They stood straight and tall, tapering out to triangles in the top, making them all look like arrows to the sky. This would not be a bad description, seeing as that was the direction they pointed.

Attached to the bulbous ends were long pieces of copper wire, extending into the windows of the tallest room of the keep.

In the room, there sat a huge table, build to support the weight of a great magical artifact, built almost like a cauldron with a very puckered mouth, allowing only the strips of wire into the mouth.

On the front of the cauldron only two things stood out from the black iron. A small dial of numbers, only four rows long. Currently, it sat o 0, inactive, as it had been for a very, very long time.

The second noticeable feature on it was another row of dials, this one much larger and longer with many more sides. It held letters, many letters.

And in front of this giant Connector, sat a very beautiful, and very bored, Fleur Delacour.

She sighed, her chin resting on the back of the straight wooden chair, which she had turned around to straddle.

"Haah...Michelle, you bitch..." Fleur muttered wearily. "I can't believe you foisted babysitter watch off on me. Whore!" She growled. Thunder boomed suddenly, as if it disapproved such language coming out of perfectly proportioned lips such as hers.

A very beautiful, very bored, and very annoyed, Fleur Delacour.

This is why she was totally unprepared, when a whirring alarm filled her ears, and her eyes shot to the lone streak of visibly blue magic shooting down one of the threads.

"Merde!" She breathed, as the number and letter dials began to move.

0 0 0 7

/ / N

Fleur quickly whipped out a piece of parchment, and scribbled this down, before dashing down the stairs behind her.

The lower floor was a mess of confusion. Veela were darting all about, trying to triangulate the signal, and feedback machines were spitting out great wads of data and numbers that Fleur could not hope to understand, having only arrived a short few weeks ago.

In truth, she had not known why she had been stationed here, having been drafted almost straight out of Beauxbatons for her impeccable grades and connections to one the 13 Matriarchs of the Veela Nation.

She shot down the final flight of stairs, to the bottom floor. The Mistress's office.

The office was large and lushly decorated, with rich red Persian rugs, and extremely expensive tapestries, depicting scenes of battle, and grand balls, of transformed Veela descending upon hapless human defenders from the skies with fire in their hands.

The desk the Mistress sat at was a strong brown mahogany, with gold inlaid in the edges and many important papers and strange, convoluted artifacts.

Yet the whole room was a sham compared to the beauty of the Mistress herself.

Pure silvery hair seemingly poured down around a pale face fit to shame the gods themselves. The black and gold dress she wore seemed to bring every part of the Mistress to life, forcing you to slowly start from the black silk slippered toes to the skirted legs, straight up the round hips and snug way the dress clung to her bottom as she stood up, before curving around her waist to her indescribable bosom and swanlike neck.

Even in a complete panic and frenzy, Fleur could not help but feel the hopeless envy that any Veela, even a quarter-Veela such as herself, considered an abomination by many of the Veela, felt when faced with the presence of the Mistress

When faced with the presence of the Fourth Matriarch.

"Yes, Fleur?" She spoke evenly, her voice sounding like a soaring swan compared to hers even now. The small, Ming-porcelain cup of tea in her hand didn't waver, rising to her seductive lips as they curved around the rim, allowing the tea passage into her mouth. "What is all this commotion, hmm?"

Fleur took another moment to hopelessly envy the complete composure the woman-the Veela- in front of her held, before speaking.

"It's happened, Mistress." Fleur's voice sounded thick with emotion, which she took another pointless moment to hate about herself. "There's been a reading."

One delicately curved eyebrow rose. "Oh? Where, darling?"

Fleur nearly shuddered at the intoxicating sound of her name passing this woman's perfect lips. "London, England. King's Cross Station."

The alarm suddenly cut off, as if severed by a knife. Fleur stared upwards, as if she could see through the floor, in confusion.

"Hmm..." This tantalizing purr of a hum did make Fleur shudder. "He must have entered some heavily warded area. Perhaps Hogwarts? No, no, their year is over, and students are not allowed to stay during the summer. Hmm..." A sharp intake of breath. "Did you get his number?" The Matriarch asked innocently, as if she weren't mercilessly arousing the girl.

"Y-Yes." Fleur nodded shakily and produced her scrap of parchment. "0007."

For the first time, the Matriarch showed a sign of shock, which was a slight widening of her cool blue eyes.

Then, she laughed.

Fleur was struck completely still, rooted to the spot by the delightful tingle that traveled up her spine, as the Mistress's laughter filled the room. She heard thumping as a dozen other Veela pounded down the stairs, sending her derisive or mocking glares, before stopping

The Fourth finally ceased, wiping a single tear from her eye, her lips curved in an unmistakable smile. "Ah, ma lis de glace, I always knew you would come through."

"Mistress?"One of the other Veela queried. The Matriarch fixed them all with stern looks, and they straightened up, their breath quickening.

"You know your jobs." She replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Go and track him down. Find out who he is, where he lives. Go!"

A screeching sound filled the room as the Veela transformed into their bird-like forms, screaming their approval, before they soared up the stairs, Fleur's gaze following them with anger at their chance over hers, and despair that she, as a quarter-Veela, could never hope to acquire the avian form that full Veela enjoyed.

"Now, now, Fleur, I have a job for you too." The seductive coo was more than enough to bring all of Fleur's attention back to her.

"My life is yours." Fleur replied, bowing her head, her eyes wide. What else could she do?

Silently she listened to the Matriarch's calm commands, memorizing them completely, and vowing to write them down later privately. She bit her lip, though, at the last one.

She had once hoped for a normal life. A normal job, and normal relationship, a normal husband (Well, not normal, but acceptable for her), and a normal family.

It was simply not to be, it seemed. Not as a girl with Veela blood flowing through her veins.

Not with the Fourth Matriarch of the Veela nation as your grandmother.

"Go now, dear granddaughter." The woman smiled warmly, and Fleur kept her gaze downward. "First, we attract the fly with honey, and discover if it is necessary later to drown him in vinegar."

"Yes, grandmother." Fleur replied dutifully, before heading back up the stairs, so she could go and pack her bags.

After all, grandmother or not, a Matriarch's commands to a Veela or half-blood were absolute. That was the rule.

Unquestionable.

Yet try as she might, Fleur could not rid her heart of the tiny defiant spark that yearned to burn.

Fin.

SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF

"It's happened, Mistress." Fleur's voice sounded thick with emotion, which she took another pointless moment to hate about herself. "There's been a reading."

One delicately curved eyebrow rose. "Oh? Where, darling?"

Fleur nearly shuddered at the intoxicating sound of her name passing this woman's perfect lips. "London, England. King's Cross Station."

The alarm suddenly cut off, as if severed by a knife. Fleur stared upwards, as if she could see through the floor, in confusion.

"Hmm..." This tantalizing purr of a hum did make Fleur shudder. "He must have entered some heavily warded area. Perhaps Hogwarts? No, no, their year is over, and students are not allowed to stay during the summer. Hmm..." A sharp intake of breath. "Did you get his number?" The Matriarch asked innocently, as if she weren't mercilessly arousing the girl.

"Yes!" She wailed. "It's OVER NINE THOUSAND!"

"WHAT?" The Matriarch screamed, reverting back to her natural language in her shock. "OVER NINE THOUSAND?"

"OVER. NINE. THOUSAND!" Fleur screamed in agreement, having somewhere acquired strange tan and white Saiyan armor and a bizarre glass pane over one of her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry sighed, as he took a sip of the glass of water, and from the tray of sandwiches Aunt Petunia had brought in a few hours before, took a bite of liverwurst, before grimacing and swallowing it.

His hands rose up to knead his temples once more, trying to find somewhere, something, anything, any clue to how and where this had started.

The hospital was definitely something. It had been happening there, he noticed now. The nurses, or rather, the women, all crowding to be around him. Hermione had been affected back then too, he realized, recalling instances when she had requested numerous times for male Healers and doctors, and how many times she had been the one who sent the nurses back to their jobs.

Not, as it seemed, out of concern for him. She wanted to be alone with him. Have him all to herself.

He couldn't explain it as anything other than almost as if he had become a male veela.

That, of course, was completely impossible. Harry had leafed through his meager collection of books before finding the answer in one of the Care of Magical Creatures Texts.

There was no such thing as male veela. Not with powers, anyway.

Male veela were the equivalent of breeding studs for the Veela nation. They had no fire controlling abilities, no avian form, no enthralling aura. They were a bit better looking, true, but other than that, they were just very good looking Muggles, since, being a magical creature as they were, they had no magic other than their genes.

Since Harry could perform magic, and was not being passed around as a sex toy in France, he was obviously not a male veela.

So, what the hell was happening? Men were terrified of him, and women wouldn't stay away from him!

I could write to Dumbledore. Harry mused.

But...Dumbledore was one of the most important wizards in the world. Harry was almost sure he was very busy a great deal of the time. Every time he wrote to him, he felt like he was just whining for no reason.

In this case, however, he really had no other choice. Something had changed, and he needed a way to stop it.

He grabbed a piece of parchment, and after a moment of rummaging, found an acceptable pen to write with.

He nibbled the end for a moment, before setting to writing.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm afraid I have a-

Harry searched for a good word.

-problem. Ever since I got out of the hospital, and a little of the time in it, people around me have been acting weird. The blokes act like I'm some wrathful god of vengeance, and pissing me off means instant destructions, and all the women won't leave me alone! I need help. Do you think this is related somehow to the graveyard thing? You know, more accidental magic on my part? I've been keeping my temper, I haven't got angry once, and I haven't been feeling any extreme emotion. Do you have anything to make people leave me alone?

There. That pretty well summed up all of his problems.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Harry signed it, and licked the edge of an envelope, before gently opening Hedwig's cage, letting the powerful bird of prey step onto her pole carefully, holding out her leg as Harry attached the letter. Distantly, he heard the shutting of a door and the revving of a car.

"Take that to Dumbledore; To Hogwarts. Okay, Hedwig?" He asked softly.

She hooted softly, before turning her head. Harry followed her gaze, before the door opened, and admitted Aunt Petunia.

"Sending a letter?" She asked innocently.

Harry nodded, and turned back to his owl. "Go." He ordered softly.

Hedwig hooted, before flying out of the open window of Harry's room, soon becoming a white speck in the sky.

"To who?" She asked, a bit insistant.

"A friend." He replied shortly, not really feeling like putting up with her fawning behavior at the moment.

She seemed to take this with a bit of lemon, her mouth twisting up in a momentary frown, before returning to her normal eager smile. She closed the door gently.

"Harry-" That still sounded wrong, coming in such a sweet tone. "I known you're a growing boy. A growing man." She continued.

Harry felt a definite feeling of weirdness from Petunia. He backed up slowly. "Sure..." He replied slowly.

"I know that you boys-men-aren't the best on talking about things." She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down. "Things like love, feelings, school,...-" Her eyes darted upwards towards him. "...sex..."

Harry was against the wall now, staring at Petunia warily. "Aunt Petunia-" He phrased this as delicately as she could, yet she still shivered. "-where's Uncle Vernon and Dudley?" He asked.

"And I know that you must be undergoing a lot of changes right now, especially with strange...sensations you might be getting. I assure you, those changes are entirely normal, even in some cases..." She took a single step forward. "...encouraged..."

Harry looked around wildly for something to put between them, and found nothing. "Where are they, Aunt Petunia? Where's Vernon and Dudley?" He asked, in a harsh tone of voice, hoping it would ward her off.

It didn't, she took a few swift steps forward, and before he could stop her, she had her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them.

"I just want to let you know, Harry, I'm always open. For a talk, for a question, even for, even for experimentation!" She smiled.

And in that smile, Harry saw madness. Complete and utter lack of any form of sanity. This was a woman possessed.

"UNCLE VERNON! DUDLEY!" Harry bellowed, trying to break free of the hold his aunt had on his shoulder. It was no use. Ashamed as he was, even his bony aunt was stronger than his scrawny, under-fed body. "GET IN HERE!"

"Oh, don't be silly Harry." She replied, in what she probably thought as a purr, but Harry only heard as a hoarse, insane whisper. "Vernon just took Dudley to boxing practice. They won't be back for hours." She giggled, and Harry was sure he heard a bit of hysteria in it. "Hours, all to ourselves. What would you like to try first?"

"How about you getting OFF OF ME!" Harry yelled, frantically trying to push his aunt off of him.

She grabbed both of his hands by the wrists, before pushing them both onto his bed. "Now, now, Harry there's no reason to be frightened." She whispered quickly, frantically, into his ear, as she tried to shrug off her dress. "I've heard people do this all the time."

"That's a lie, Aunt Petunia! You're insane! I do not want to have sex with you! GET OFF'A ME!" He yelled. He tried to bring up his knees and kick her, but his legs were firmly twined around his.

"Stop struggling!" She grunted. "Having urges is perfectly normal, Harry, now come on, help me with this!" She ordered, trying to bite through her dress strap.

"Go...er...to...ugh...hell!" He grunted, squirming with all of his might.

"I am your aunt and I order you to take your bloody clothes off!" She screeched, sounding more like herself now, although in extremely wrong context.

"No! N-NO!" He groaned in exertion.

Petunia drew up her legs and straddled him, showing far more leg than he had ever wanted to see from her.

Then, she started to kiss him, or at least try to. He turned his head as much he could.

"Stop moving!" She grumbled, going in for another peck.

"No, no, get off, stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" He roared, head butting her as strongly as he could.

With a loud bang, a roaring filled his ears, and his head connected, sending Petunia flying across the room, to hit the wall rather hard, shaking the house, before she fell and connected with the ground with a sickening crunch.

Harry stared at her, wide eyed, a moment, before leaning over and retching.

After he had emptied the contents of his stomach, he drew a few, shaky breaths, and went over to check her horribly still body, and slightly smoking body.

Remembering a brief trick, he reached two trembling fingers to a spot under her neck.

Nothing.

He then grabbed one of her arms and tried her wrists. Nothing.

A low moan escaped his lips. He scrambled back to against the wall, his eyes darting around quickly.

"Oh my god, oh my god, omigod, omiGOD!" He whispered, increasingly hysteric as he stared at the corpse sitting in his bedroom. "I just...I just...oh, sweet Merlin-" He leaned over and coughed up a few spats of bile. "I just...killed Aunt Petunia. I just killed Aunt Petunia."

The walls seemed to almost close in on him. He grabbed his head as a pulse of pain hit his head.

"I've got to...I've got to get out of here." Harry announced quickly. He didn't know where he'd go, or what he'd do, but the only for sure thing was that he absolutely had to get out of this room with his dead aunt-who HE had KILLED!-and get as far away as possible.

He leapt to his feet, mentally going over his options. His trunk? He'd have to leave it behind. Hedwig? She'd left...he'd need her cage. She always returned to her cage.

He grabbed the handle of the cage. Where would he go? Money. He'd need money. And his wand.

Harry grabbed his wand, sticking it in the back of his pants, before dashing out the door of his room, and down the stairs.

He rooted through his coat for his purse, and after a moment's pause, threw the coat around his shoulders, before opening the door and running to the curb, before hastily sticking the wand out.

With the familiar screech of rubber, the Knight Bus appeared. Harry, heedless of whoever might be watching from the window, piled in, just as Stan hurriedly stood up.

"MOVE!" Harry barked.

Stan cowered back, before shutting the door and sliding into his seat, slamming his foot on the pedal.

The familiar blur was shone in the windows, and Harry leaned against the wall, his mind racing as he pondered silently his options.

Eventually, Stan worked up the courage to speak.

"Er...Mr. Harry Potter, sir...with all due respect, well, where would you like to go?" He asked timidly.

This question raised a valid point. Harry bit his lip worriedly.

"Mr. Harry Potter-"

"I heard you!" Harry snapped angrily. Stan cringed and quieted. Harry took a few, calming breaths, before turning back to watch the windows. "How far in Britain can you go?"

"Oh, we can go just about anywhere in Britain, s'long as it has a road!" He assured the agitated Boy-Who-Lived quickly.

"Right." Harry closed his eyes, and deliberated quickly his choices. One thought stood out among them.

He needed to get out of the country. He'd seen that, in a few of the Muggle movies Dudley had discarded. Normally, he wouldn't believe something just because it was in a movie, but at the moment, it sounded pretty damn sensible.

He couldn't Apparate yet, and International Floo Powder networks were only available at the Ministry, as far as he knew. And being that close to a source of law enforcement did not sound like a good idea.

He could always go to Dumbledore...no. He couldn't face Dumbledore right now. Not now. Maybe later, after he had worked out something to say to him, some way to explain. Right now, he needed to run.

A plane. He needed to use a plane. And for that, he needed a lot more money than just the measly twelve Galleons and three Sickles he was carrying in his small purse.

"Stan, is there a Gringotts outside of Diagon Alley? And can they convert wizard money into Muggle money?" Harry asked quickly.

Stan jumped in his seat, after such a length of silence from Harry, no ready for such a sudden question.

"Er...yeah, there's a few separate small branches. Only in the bigger wizarding towns, you know, one's with lots of wizards in them. And you want to turn some Galleons into pounds?" Stan scratched his head, under his cap, thoughtfully. "I...I think they do that."

"Good." Harry replied shortly. "Take me to the nearest Gringotts outside of Diagon Alley."

"Rightawayyessir!" He blurted quickly, before turning the wheel and bit, and fiddling with the dashboard.

Harry sighed before walking to the back of the bus, and setting down the owl cage and laying down on one of the beds, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts.

I'm in some seriously deep shit.

That thought turned up quite often.

Dumbledore was just entering his office, after enjoying a nice cup of tea on the grounds with Hagrid, when he heard his carefully gathered artifacts start blaring, each one giving off a particular noise.

He let his teacup drop to the floor as he dashed into his office at full speed, not feeling a hint of remorse when it shattered into pieces.

"Fawkes! Contact Minerva, we need as many members of the Order as we can gather at Privet Drive, immediately!" He ordered quickly, seeing the modified Remembrawl he had tweaked to monitor the wards and blood wards set up around the house filled with black smoke, signifying the wards falling.

He rounded his desk, and threw a large handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace, careless of the waste. "Grimmauld Place!" He snapped, before sticking his head into the fire.

Immediately, he projected his magic to nearly every stone in the house. "Sirius! Privet Drive may be under attack! I need you and Remus there on the double!"

Dumbledore immediately pulled his head out of the fire, and took a brief moment to survey his alarms, deducting what had happened.

The Dark Magic alarm was ringing, along with Petunia Dursley's life alarm, which meant she was dead. That was a terrible shame, but he had to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Vernon and Dudley Dursley were still alive, considering the fact their alarms remained peacefully sleeping on his shelves. The proximity alarm he had placed on Harry was ringing like no tomorrow, so he had to assume the boy had left the house. He knew Harry had been there, considering that the alarm he had linked to his office on the boy's magic was ringing as well, signifying that he had preformed magic, but the one on Harry's wand was not.

So, Harry had preformed either wandless or accidental magic. Dumbledore resolved to withhold judgement until he discovered what had actually set Harry off.

Strangely enough, the Dark Mark proximity wards hadn't gone off...so sadly, Dumbledore also had to assume that someone within the house had killed Petunia Dursley. Which meant Vernon, Dudley, or Harry.

And most sadly, Harry was the most probable choice.

Dumbledore grabbed his cloak off of his rack, which was shielded with a dozen defensive enchantments, and with a brief moment of concentration, Apparated to Number 4, Privet Drive.

He was the first on the scene, as it seemed. He surveyed the empty driveway, open door and smoking but magically fading skid marks on the side of the pavement with eyes heavy with sorrow.

There were numerous pops behind him, signifying the arrival of other Order members.

"Come on, you Death Eater basta-!" Sirius cut off his battle-cry abruptly, not seeing any of Voldemort's followers in the immediate vicinity. He stuffed his wand away.

He could feel Minerva's presence as she joined his side, surveying the sight of Privet Drive.

"Albus, what has happened?" She asked, her stern eyes searching the scene for any clues of the Headmaster's distress.

"Petunia Dursley is dead." The Transfigurations Mistress's mouth fell open, but no words came out. "And Harry has fleed the scene of the crime."

"But...Headmaster." Remus Lupin had joined his side now, staring troubled at the last remnants of the Knight Bus disappearing on the pavement. "Surely you can't think that Harry could have done such a thing!" He protested.

"Harry's a good kid, Dumbledore." Sirius denied vehemently. "He may be moody now and then, but he'd never kill his own aunt. Never." Sirius proclaimed firmly.

"If only all of our estimations of people could never be proven false." Dumbledore sighed, drawing his wand, before sticking it out onto the street. Nothing happened. Dumbledore slumped and sheathed his wand. "It appears that Harry has hijacked the Knight Bus."

"Surely you can't be serious!" Sirius exclaimed, scowling. "This is ridiculous."

"No, that's your name, my dear fellow." Dumbledore joked weakly. Sirius only scowled harder.

"This is not the time for fooling around, Professor." Lupin reminded him sternly.

Dumbledore sighed and nodded. "Indeed, we must endeavor to find the reason for Harry's flight from Privet Drive, and the cause behind Petunia's death, so we may determine whether there is any connection between them."

"There isn't." Sirius hissed confidently. "I know there isn't."

Two more pops sounded behind them, allowing Kingley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks onto the scene, wands drawn. Once determining there were no malign forces present, they both holstered their wands, and began making their way over.

Dumbledore frowned, as he heard the sound of sirens. He turned to Number 3, Privet Drive, and saw a curtain hurriedly flap close.

"I have as much faith as you in Harry, Sirius, but we must be absolutely sure." Dumbledore ordered firmly. "I will need you to conduct a full memory wipe of this caldisac, if you please. You were training to be an Obliviator, if I'm not mistaken, before you were admitted to Azkaban, correct?"

Sirius nodded. "Been a while, but the material's still all there. Or mostly. I'll get on it." Sirius drew his wand, and strode off in the direction of the first house in the rotation.

The ancient wizard turned to Lupin, who waited attentively, just like he had in his classes. "You will inform any of our comrades who arrive of the situation, and entertain the Muggle authorities when they arrive. If Sirius is done by then, tell him to Obliviate them as well."

"Yes, Headmaster." Lupin nodded, before stalking off to meet Tonks and Kingsley midway.

"And me, Albus?" Minerva asked, as calm and composed as him. One of the reasons why he kept her at his right hand, besides her incredible aptitude with Transfiguration.

"We, my dear, shall try to discover how Harry Potter managed to produce a charge of accidental Dark magic, and the nature of Petunia Dursley's death."

To her credit, the Gryffindor Head of House only lagged behind a second with her mouth open, before trotting quickly up to match Dumbledore's pace as he strode into the Dursley home.

And in the grass near a hedge, a tiny microphone fizzled out and broke.

Meanwhile, about a hundred feet in the air above Privet Drive, a Veela women removed her headphones, and placed them in one of the pouches around her waist, used as a substitute for backpacks, considering the fact that their arms were the only things that kept them airborn, and hindering them in such a way would be very stupid.

Of course, this raised the question of how they would even stop moving their arms long enough to retrieve the headphones, without plummeting to the ground. The answer was sitting on each other's shoulders.

"You done yet, Alexa? My shoulders hurt." whined Michelle, from between the listener's thighs.

"Ah, you might hurt my feelings. Are you saying I'm fat?" giggled the woman. Alexa patted her on the cheek, before lifting off of her companion's shoulders with a few quick flaps of her arms, bringing them into a semi-circle just a short distance below the clouds.

"You got it?" queried Colette, their squad leader, all business.

"Of course I got it, darling. I'm the best, after all." Alexa drawled, as best as she could with her tight, puckered lips, almost beaklike.

"Then stop being an arrogant trollop and tell us!" insisted the fourth Veela angrily.

"Fine, fine, you're really a bitch sometimes, you know, Claire?" replied Alexa lazily. "You won't believe it, though. Our target is Harry James Potter, le Survivant." Murmurings and exclamations of shock and disbelief spread through their little meeting in the sky. Alexa smirked. "Apparently he may or may not have killed his own aunt, and is now fleeing via the English Knight Bus."

"So that's why the arrow went dead!" Michelle deducted, a sound of amazement in her voice, as she looked down to the black iron arrow, which was on a necklace around her neck. There were three copies of such an arrow, one for each search and capture squadron, and each pointed in the direction of an aura it had locked on to.

For this reason Michelle was the fastest and strongest flyer among the four, having to fly a great deal ahead of the rest so as not confuse the signal with her three companions, despite being the freshest member of their squad.

"Very well." Colette announced. "First, we must report this information to the Mistress."

"What!"

"Huh?"

"You can't be serious, Colette! If we go back now, the Doves may pull ahead, and we can't lose to those whores!" protested Claire vehemently. "And if the Swans win, you know we won't hear the end of it for months!"

"Yeah, Colette, I don't want to lose to the other squads!" Michelle wailed piteously.

"That'll break our streak! We've been undefeated for almost a whole year, two more months and it'll beat the old record! We can't lose to those rookies!" Alexa seemed especially against it. "It'll totally ruin our image! Come on!"

"That's enough!" Colette snapped, like a whip crack. The bickering Veela were silent instantly. "I am the captain of this squad, and what I say, goes! The Mistress told us to report any anomalies, and that is what we will do! We're heading back to the Nursery." She informed them coldly, before turning and beginning the flight.

A few moments later, she could hear the identical flap of wings behind her, along with mutinous mutterings of 'asskisser' and 'lapdog'.

She ignored this. If the le Survivant was truly the one they had been waiting for, then it could put a definite kink in the plans of the Mistress.

And nothing could be allowed to impede her Mistress, the Fourth Matriarch of the 13 Matriarchs of the Veela Nation, Lucienne Delacour.

Harry was not able to sleep very well, only being able to lightly doze on one of the beds. He was almost immediately awake when the bus jerked to a halt, rolling out of bed to his feet, his hand trailing towards his wand.

He relaxed, ever so slightly, when Stan's head leaned around the corner, peering anxiously at Harry.

"We're here, uh, . Wiltshire County. Lots and lots of pureblooded families here, because of Stonehenge and Avebury and all that, you know." Stan announced blearily.

This got Harry's immediate attention. "Like who?" He asked warily.

"Oh, the Notts, the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, the Malfoys-" Stan listed quickly.

"The Malfoys!" Harry repeated quickly. Stan nodded quickly, fearfully, and Harry narrowed his eyes and looked down, deliberating his choices of actions. "Stan." Harry spoke up suddenly.

"Y-Yes, ?" He responded quickly.

"Can you access my account for me?" Harry queried, after a brief pause due to the prying of his account key from his purse. "I have the key and everything." Harry lifted the small golden key as proof.

Stan looked hesitant. ", I don't think that...I don't think I'm allowed to leave the bus. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't. It's my job."

"Stan!" Harry growled in annoyance, and stopped as the bus driver cringed back in fear. Harry let go of his frustration with a sigh. It would do no good to take out his animosity on the man, considering the way he and every male seemed to be terrified of him.

Hell, by the looks of things, Stan looked ready to soil himself. And taking advantage of his unnatural fear sounded like something Voldemort would do, which put Harry firmly against it.

"How much is your salary?" Harry asked abruptly. Stan blinked in surprise.

"Huh? Er...twenty five Galleons a month, , sir."

"Stan, if you do this for me, if you just do this simple thing, run to the Gringotts and withdraw for me..." Harry mentally estimated, before chucking the notion. "My whole trust account, and convert enough of it into nine hundred pounds, then you could have...have...a hundred Galleons." Harry watched in satisfaction as Stan's mouth dropped open.

Stan's face scrunched up, as he undoubtedly agonized over the choice. Harry could smell the blood in the water, and went in for the kill.

"No one will know. I'm not going to tell anyone, you're not going to tell anyone, and all you have to do is a simple withdrawal and transferal. Then, you're a hundred Galleons richer." Harry dug in his pocket, and pulled out his purse, jingling the coins inside with a brief shake. "This is my down payment. There's half your month's salary in here. What's it going to be, Stan? I need an answer." Silence. "Stan!" Harry spoke sharply.

"Okay, okay! I'll...I'll do it. No one will know, right? Just you and me?" He reaffirmed quickly, nervously.

"Not a single soul." Harry replied soothingly.

Stan rose from his seat, and after taking a shaky breath, opened the door, before piling down the steps. The crunching sound of his loafers on the gritty path soon faded into the night.

Harry let out a shaky breath, and slid down against the wall. His frayed nerves were visible to anyone who might have been looking on.

This was because he had no bloody fucking idea what he was doing.

He was on the run, had killed his aunt, had a Dark Lord trailing his footsteps, everyone around him was acting weird, and he had absolutely, positively no idea what to fucking do!

Harry felt his pulse rapidly quickening, as a myriad of emotions shot through him, finally free from the tight control he had been keeping over them for the last few hours, through will or perhaps some sort of shock factor. Shame, guilt, fear, nausea, finally settled on a strange, interesting mix of inconsolable rage, resentment and frustration.

"God damn IT!" Harry growled in himself, before gripping his wand so tight for a moment, he thought it might snap. "God damn, god damn, god da-a-amn...!"

A sharp wave of pain burst through his scalp, and his hands automatically flew to his scalp. He remembered the Headmaster's words, and began to hyperventilate. Oh, shit, not again, not again, not again!

Harry tried as best he could to remember any tricks he could for controlling temper. He took deep breaths, but the clarity the oxygen brought him only brought clearer thoughts, which only added fuel to the fire.

Why the hell does all this shit happen to me! Harry screamed mentally. He knew he was whining; He knew that complaining did nothing to solve problems, but damn it all to hell, he was pretty damn sure he had earned to right to some! I have to be the one who's aunt tried to rape him, I have to be the one who had to have a Dark Lord and all of his minions after my blood since before I could walk, I had to be the one who couldn't do a god-damned thing while people died around me, with only the equivalent of a 'Don't worry, you'll do it somehow' from the one man who's supposed to be protecting me, instead of the other way around! Me, Me ME! Why is it always me!

Harry's angry mental bitching quickly turned to shock and horror, as his fingers grew black for a brief second, before bursting into dark reddish flame.

A howl of agony escaped his lips, as his wand fell from nerveless finger, just as the walls began to close in on him, and his vision started to flicker violent red.

No, no, NO! Not! Again!

Harry stumbled over to a bed, and began slapping his fingers as quickly as possible against the rough fabric, screaming in nearly incoherent pain. This only served to set the blankets on fire, and worsen the pain. His knees buckled under him as his legs kicked and flailed as he rolled on the floor.

Got to put out the fire, got to put it out, put it out, put it OUT NOW! WATER, DAMN IT!

Harry's vision caught a long, dark object at the corner of his vision. He frantically squirmed over to it, and placing his fingers in front of his immobile wand, screamed, "AQUAMENTI!"

Harry half groaned, half sobbed in relief as a thick stream of water coursed out of the end of his wand, meeting the crimson flames engulfing his fingers with a hiss, before fizzling out completely. He let the water run over his fingers for a few more minutes, before pulling them away, to inspect them.

He winced, and shuddered at the damage. The skin was all patchwork, like a quilt, and where the flame had burned through, black shiny, scorched muscle shone. Harry was no doctor, but even he could tell it looked bad. There was already pus and some shiny fluid he couldn't recognize welling up at some of the corners.

He experimentally tried twitching one of the fingers.

Bad move.

Harry let out a loud, hoarse gasp as his spine arched reflexively, as a vicious lance of lightning seemed to shoot through every nerve cluster in his body.

He stared down at his wand, which had stopped shooting water a while ago. Through labored breaths, he tried a hopeful uttering of, "Aquamenti."

Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The wand was non-responsive.

Harry craned his head to look down at his hands. He wasn't keen to try holding a wand in those.

Harry reached down, and picked up the end of his wand in his mouth, pushing off with his feet until he had his back against the wall. He held up his fingers in front of the tip of the wand clenched between his front teeth. "Akhokukenti." Harry spat out through the wood clenched in his teeth.

Nothing. The fingers were starting to throb, now, a pulse of ache that seemed completely synchronized with his heartbeat.

So, Harry tried a different approach. He laid himself prone, before spitting out his wand onto his chest. He arched his back, and made a few, odd bumping gestures using his torso and hips, keeping his burned hands firmly in the air, before managing to get the wand to his side, before clamping down on it with his armpit.

He then maneuvered himself back into his previous position against the wall, placing his hands in front of the tip of the wand, before clearly enunciating the spell.

"Aquamenti."

A firm, yet gentle stream of water pushed out, and Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't known he was holding. The water was completely soaking his right pant-leg, but he couldn't honestly give a damn at the moment.

The sound of voices drew his attention, however, as he froze in recognition of one of them.

"I certainly hope you aren't lying to me, Stanley. I shall be greatly displeased if this is all a hoax."

Luicus Malfoy. Although it had been a while, Harry would recognize that familiar arrogant aristocratic drawl anywhere, even with the edge of excitement it held. He frantically scrambled over to the edge of the corner to look around.

"I-I-I would never, Lord Malfoy!" Stan's anxious, terrified voice was heard clearly as the crunch of gravel grew louder.

Harry heard the clang of feet meeting the steps up to the bus, and stared at the wand firmly stuck in his armpit, and saw the only course of action become apparent. He curled up his legs and made himself as small as possible, and waited.

Just as black boots appeared next to Harry, he grabbed his wand out of his armpit with his scorched fingers, and pointed his wand at the blonde head that appeared before screaming with all the might his pain granted him.

"STUPEFY!"

The spell was nearly point blank. Luicus never had a chance. He crumpled to the ground, limp and unconscious, snake-headed cane falling from nerveless fingers.

Not stopping to take a breather, Harry threw himself around the corner, and was greeted with the sight of Stan Shunpike, seemingly frozen in place with fear. The Gryffindor boy didn't hesitate a second. "Pertrificus Totalus!"

Stan's arms and legs locked up straight, and he went stiff as a board, before slowly tipping over backwards and falling.

Harry shuddered, before the pain became just too great and he dropped the wand, who's end was covered in dead black skin and small amounts of blood and pus that had leaked from squeezing too hard.

He scrambled to his feet, keeping his hands cradled to his chest, before picking his way over to the door of the bus, staring cautiously yet suspiciously out into the cold, dark night.

There were only crickets and peepers. It seems Malfoy had thought to handle the Boy-Who-Lived all by himself. Maybe it was arrogance. Maybe it was greed for whatever reward Harry was sure Voldemort would've granted him had the capture been successful. Whatever it was, Harry was grateful for it. He wasn't sure he could handle anyone else, considering he could barely hold his wand at the moment.

Harry quickly hooked an elbow around the handle for the door, and pulled the doors shut. He then picked his way back over Stan's immobile body, ignoring the eyes which so wildly rolled in their sockets with fear.

He stopped at his wand, and after firmly gritting his teeth, picked it up.

He shuddered with the pain, and made sure to hold it loosely, before pointing the wand at the bus driver and muttering the counter curse.

Stan instantly scrambled to his knees, before Harry snarled. "Move and you die!" He froze. Harry kept his wand trained on him. He swallowed, and gestured with his wand. "Wand. Give me your wand. Slowly." Harry ordered thickly, the pain clogging his throat with heat and making his eyes water.

Stan bobbed his head and moved his hand very slowly towards the inside of his coat. A simple brown wand soon appeared, before he slowly put it on the floor, and pushed it towards Harry. His face glistened with sweat.

Stan's hand twitched and grabbed the wand, and Harry stomped it flat without a hint of remorse. A pained yelp escaped his lips, before Harry grinded his sneaker a little more before sliding the wand out of reach when it dropped from the fingers.

Then, Harry delivered a vicious toe to the bus driver's chin, sending him sprawling back with a surprised gasp.

"You betrayed me!" Harry hissed.

"No!" Stan whimpered.

"It was simple! Just get the money, and you get rich! And then you fucking betray me!" It was possible that Harry's pain was fueling his rage at this point, but he couldn't care less. Harry breathed deeply. "Give me one...one good reason...why I shouldn't...kill you, RIGHT NOW YOU MOTHER FUCKER!"

Harry could do it. This single self-realization chilled his very own blood, to the point where there was no more rage left in him, just cold certainty.

He was on the run, he was desperate, he was alone, and he could kill this man to save his own skin.

He could kill this man. He would kill this man.

"I didn't! I didn't! He made me do it!" Stan screamed pitifully, his hands raised as some sort of pathetic defense against the Unforgivable Curse on Harry's lips.

Harry swallowed, his eyes narrowed. "How?"

"Imperius Curse!" Stan breathed quickly, seemingly seizing the opportunity Harry gave him like a lifeline.

Harry slowly thought this through. It was possible, no, probable, that the elder Malfoy could have used the Imperius Curse on Stan Shunpike, if he saw the man without his bus, wandering a mostly wealthy pureblood town.

However, it was also just as likely that this was an excuse, seeing as the Imperius Curse was used a lot as an excuse for doing things you weren't supposed to, seeing as Luicus had gotten off mostly scot-free for all of his days as a Death Eater just by claiming this. And Harry wouldn't be terribly surprised if the first thing Stan did once he was out of sight was run straight for the Malfoy Manor.

"You've got one chance." Harry informed Stan. He nodded quickly. "Where's my money?" Harry asked.

Stan's face broke into relief. He pointed to the black silk form splayed behind Harry. "He took it. He-He asked me why I was there, and I told him I coming back from Gringotts to pick up your money, and he took it. After he-...After he Imperius-ed me." Stan explained quickly. "It's in a Bottomless Bag."

Harry felt a twinge of uneasiness. He pointed his wand at Stan again, who cowered back. "What's a Bottomless Bag?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"It's-It's a bag! Gringotts gives it out for large withdrawals! You just say the amount, and it appears in the bag!" Stan blurted out quickly. "A bag without a bottom! A Bottomless Bag!"

Harry's eyes flickered to the prone form of Luicus Malfoy. "Accio Bottomless Bag."

The form shivered and moved slightly, before a portion of the black cloak bulged, before a red leather bag burst through, flying to Harry's outstretched hand. He stifled a groan as his fingers sent burning pain down his body as he was forced to close his fingers around the bag.

Harry peeled the mouth open and muttered. "Twelve Galleons."

When he looked, there were a dozen fat golden coins shining in the bottom of the bag. Harry closed the bag and stuffed it in one of his pockets. Stan was shifting nervously on the ground, not having dared move an inch to get up or unbend his knees from their painful position.

"I-er-I didn't get all of it..." Stan murmured quietly, looking anywhere but in Harry's direction.

"What? What!" Harry asked sharply. Stan twitched and held up his hands.

"I couldn't take it all out! They said the only person who could withdraw the whole account was you! I swear! I swear on my mother's grave!"

Harry blinked the hot tears of pain out of his eyes. "How much could you get?"

"Only-Only a third. I got nine hundred pounds worth of the Galleons converted, too, just like you said." The terrified bus driver emphasized this, as if it would soothe Harry's ire.

That made sense. That sounded like the kind of thing a bank like Gringotts would do, as much as Harry was annoyed and frustrated by it. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the next. "How much Galleons do I have?"

"A hundred twenty three Galleons. I didn't take a single one, I-!" Stan answered instantly.

"-swear on your mother's grave, yeah, I know." Harry muttered darkly. He had enough money for a plane ticket now, but any dreams he might have had of plenty of money to spend were dashed. "Alright. Get up."

Stan bobbed his head quickly, and scrambled to his feet, shifting and clasping his hands nervously.

Harry jerked his head towards Luicus. "Open the door and throw him out." He ordered, moving out of the way so the bus driver could get through.

Stan shuffled forward, and picked the Stunned Malfoy Lord up, placing his arm over his neck, and began dragging him towards the front of the bus.

A sudden idea hit Harry's mind. "Wait." Stan stopped dead, twisting his neck to see Harry's face. "Accio Malfoy's wand." Harry intoned.

Instead of being pulled from Luicus's body, Harry was nearly blindsided when the snake-headed cane flew at him. Harry barely moved his hand in time catch it awkwardly, gasping as the wood slapped against his delicate and scorched flesh. He bit his lip hard. "Go ahead." He wheezed, and Stan nodded before continuing with his disposal of the aristocrat.

I should've remembered from second year. Harry thought ruefully, as he pulled the head of the cane by trapping the end between his elbows, and holding it steadily between his legs. Pretty sneaky, hiding it in a cane...

The head pulled free, and Harry let the rest of the cane drop, maneuvering the wand into the same position as the cane had been in, and extricating the silver snake's head from the end of the wand.

The head dropped with a clunk, and Harry, after a bit of awkwardness, placed the wand into his pants pocket. It seemed like a good idea to have a backup. In fact, two backups is even better...Harry thought, as he pocketed Stan's wand in a similar manner. It's a good thing it's only my fingers that were burned, and not my palms, or I'd be totally fucked...

That brought up another issue Harry had been gnawing on a while. Accidental magic his ass! He very sincerely doubted other kids had parts of them lighting on fire when they got angry. He didn't know what it was or how it happened, but Harry resolved to try to put a tighter lid on his temper from then on, since it seemed to be the only reliable factor that linked the mysterious symptoms to parts of him spontaneously catching flame.

After that, he watered down his fingers again. I'm going to need to find a Healer, and soon. These don't look too good. Harry mused.

Indeed, the wounds were already filling over with a sort of cream colored pus, not the dark red scabs Harry normally associated with healing.

There was thumping up the steps, and Stan appeared in the front of the bus. Harry dragged himself to his feet.

"Alright. Good. Now close the door, and take me to the nearest airport. You do know what those are, right?" Harry asked, a bit doubtfully. He was relieved when the portly bus driver bobbed his head jerkily, before closing the door and taking a seat again.

The windows soon resumed their flashing colors as the bus sped back into motion.

Harry sat back on one of the beds, letting his own phoenix-core wand drop from his fingers to the floor. He stared at his mangled digits, now almost completely numb, which even he knew was a very bad sign, rather than good.

What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I going to do?

In Little Hangleton, England, lay a gloomy, shrouded mansion. All of it's inhabitants had mysteriously disappeared, including it's devoted caretaker. Now, none of the townspeople would dare even approach it, for fear of meeting the same fate.

Even the thrill seeking teenage boys on dares, shied away from the foreboding structure, some primal instinct telling them that trespass on it's grounds would result in nearly instant termination. They quickly found bravado-filled excuses and left.

They were very smart to do so, even if they didn't have a choice in the matter. The Muggle-Repelling ward around the Riddle Mansion did it's duty quite well.

In the trophy room of the mansion, the Dark Lord Voldemort, reborn in all of his power, lounged almost lazily on the red armchair, staring into the flickering flames of the fire.

The 'almost lazily' came from the fact that something about his pose, his mood, the tense muscles, made any who looked upon him reminded of a coiled spring; ready to explode into violence and death at a moment's notice.

There were more interesting things to look at the fire, to be sure. The Riddle family, before it's demise, had been rather wealthy, and having several generations of hunters, on both the male and female side, along with the money to fund long safaris, resulted in the many animal heads mounted on the walls, and stuffed predators standing on artificial patches of turf.

Very intriguing. But not to Tom.

They were already dead; remnants of a hunt long past, of old glories the foolish owners held onto for the day they could hunt no longer, and could only reminisce. Foolish. Stale.

Utterly boring.

The fire, the fire was alive, in ways none of his imbecile minions could possibly understand. A force of chaos, unquenchable thirst that could not be sated, only destroyed, or snuffed. No matter how much he tried to explain to them, to Pettrigrew, to Nott, to Bella, they only nodded in terror or caution or rapture, in a way that made him know that the complexity had flown right over their head.

Weak. Blind. Nearly useless. He kept them around for the sole reason of performing the duties that would have kept him from his time alone. From his quiet contemplation.

Was he insane? Maybe. Probably. Tearing your soul into sevenths couldn't possibly be very healthy on the psyche. Did it matter? No. For he was powerful. He had power. In a world where strength was the only thing respected, he was strong. And for that, he was feared.

The door behind him creaked open, and Voldemort didn't have to look around to know it was Pettigrew. His slit nostrils scrunched slightly in distaste at the oily, watery feel of the traitor's pathetic aura, so insignificant as it was compared to his. He could barely feel the shining speck in it that was the silver hand he had granted to the worm.

"What is it, Wormtail?" Tom snapped, a coil of fury burning up in his abdomen at this disrespect, at this invasion.

He heard the small creak that was the worthless maggot flinching. No doubt he was wondering how he had known he was there. The corners of the Dark Lord's mouth curled upwards in amusement, the anger vanishing like a summer rain.

Insane? Maybe. Probably.

But strong. Stronger than most. Strongest of them all, he was, the Dark Lord Vodemort, strongest of them all, he was again!

"The-The boy...H-Harry Potter, Milord. T-There is news." Wormtail stuttered out pitifully.

Voldemort felt the burning rage return. "What...about...Harry...Potter!" He bit out each word through clenched teeth. The fire roared and shifted with a sharp snap, and it's light seemed to dim slightly.

"He's-He's gone, Milord! Gone from Privet Drive! The wards have fallen, and he is gone!" Pettigrew blurted.

Anger vanished in place of surprise. Voldemort rubbed his chin with one pale, thin hand.

He had long known of Harry Potter's location, true. Before Wormtail had broke cover from the Weasley filth, he spent nearly every waking moment with the youngest son, Harry Potter's little schoolboy friend. It was impossible for even an incompetent like him to forget how many times Potter had mentioned his dislike for his relatives and going home each summer from Hoggy Woggy Hogwarts to Number 4, Privet Drive.

He had particularly infuriated when he found the wards stronger than steel, not letting himself or any bearing a Dark Mark into the nothing little town of Little Whinging. Nor any Inferi or Imperius-ed, for that matter. Only Dumbledore could have erected such wards.

He had never feared Dumbledore. Never! But he retained a spark of respect for the old man, even if he was only a shadow of the power he once held in his youth.

Dumbledore had been damned thorough, too. Several tracking charms to list who went in and out, Notice-Me-Not charms on the entire neighborhood, so no one would ever be compelled to visit Privet Drive for any other reason than the fact they lived there, and impenetrable Floo and Apparation wards, to prevent the Dark Lord from just standing up this minute, throwing a pinch of Floo Powder into the fire he stared at, and popping in to Number Four for a little visit.

No, that place was a magical fortress. Voldemort suspected that he had linked most of the wards up to that damnable blood ward Lily Potter had placed on her son, to make them even stronger. It was the only explanation Tom could find that would make the wards so powerful.

But the wards falling, that could mean only one thing. Lily Potter's relative was dead. Harry Potter was not protected any more.

Harry Potter was vulnerable, like a turtle without his shell. And he was the predator.

"Really..." Tom murmured. "That is interesting...hmm..."

Pettigrew waited patiently and fearfully, not daring a step closer while the Dark Lord deliberated his course of action.

It didn't take long.

"Wormtail."

"Y-Yes, Milord?"

"Call up the Inner Circle. Tell them to muster up every minor spy and snitch in Britain we have, and put them on the look out for Harry Potter. One whiff of curse-scar, and they send every underling they have, including themselves, after him like bloodhounds on a fox. I want a watch on all the Floos, International Apparation Points and any other means of transportation you can think of." Voldemort ordered dispassionately.

"Yes, Milord." The traitor replied nervously.

"I mean it, Wormtail. Every one. And tell them to take him alive."

"Milord?" Pettigrew replied, in anxious confusion.

Voldemort said nothing for a moment, choosing to examine in silence his arm, where there was a black, blotchy scar, in the vague shape of a hand. For a moment, a memory popped into his head, of a boy, crouched in a graveyard, his eyes glowing red, redder than even his, before crimson fire exploded from his chest in a wave of fire that took out three of his Inner Circle, and wounded many more.

Indeed, he had been thanks to his quick reflexes that he was able to grab Goyle and place him in front of himself. The idiot hadn't even had time to scream. A shame. He had had some impressive power, even if he had been too stupid to utilize it correctly.

Of course, he had still gotten a fair spattering of the unnatural fire. A long strip along the Dark Lord's back tingled, in remembrance. He had not liked retreating from that graveyard, but the pain had simply been too great to ignore. And he hadn't anticipated that Potter would escape, since he had looked completely helpless when he left him face down in the grit of the cemetary.

After he discovered the boy missing, there had been a great many Cruciatious Curses dealt that day...

"Did I stutter? Or are you...questioning me?" There was a sort of vague malice in the last statement, that made Wormtail shiver.

"N-No, of course not! Every one, Milord. Take him alive. I'll tell them immediately." Pettigrew assured the annoyed Dark Lord immediately.

"Do that. Tell them that they know the price of failure. Now go. Go!" Voldemort snapped.

Wormtail flinched, before stumbling out of the room quickly, to the room down the hall the Dark Lord had previously filled with owls. Tom waited until he could hear his servant's heavy footfalls no more, before sighing dismally.

Tom turned his arm over once more, examining the hand-print. Even with the best medical attention available, he somehow doubted he would be able to rid of this scar completely.

Instead of rage, or anger, an intrigued smile lit up the pale, angular face, as he examined the print.

"What exactly are you...Harry Potter?" He asked no one in particular. The crackling of the fire was the only other sound in the deserted, dark room.

Then, abruptly realizing he was reminiscing, something he had just condemned a short few minutes ago, he rolled the sleeve of his robe back up, scowling.

"No matter. I shall find out soon enough."

Red eyes narrowed in determination.

"One way or another."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry shifted uncomfortably, as Stan finished tying the second knot, made out of torn up sheets from the beds, around his fingers. It didn't hurt, so much as pinch.

It had taken them a good couple of hours to get to the nearest airport. Harry, for once, had had a bit of silence, seeing as Stan had gone from fearfully respectful to just plain fearful of Harry, with the Wiltshire Episode fresh in his mind. Harry did not have to put up with any annoying chitchat from him, a small mercy.

Harry had taken hours to contemplate his plan. Or lack of one.

Do I even have a plan? Sort of. Bits and pieces of one. Get out of the country seems like the main one, right now. Harry frowned. Other than that...I haven't completed school. I only have four years of Hogwarts under my belt. The money's not going to last long. Is the trust vault all my parents left me? It's only about a year's worth of money. You'd think that with all the praises Dumbledore and Hagrid and McGonagall sang about them, they'd be pretty, I don't know, rich, but they were actually just pretty normal people. A good bit better off than most normal people, but not mind-bendingly wealthy.

Dumbledore. That brought up another subject Harry had been avoiding. He cringed slightly. What's the Headmaster going to think of me now? I mean, if I had just stayed and waited for him, he probably would have understood. I was getting raped, for Merlin's sake! I killed Aunt Petunia in self-defense, hell, I don't even know how I killed her! But I ran. Only guilty people run. I bet he thinks I'm a murderer, now. I'm so stupid...

but I can't dwell on that now. First things first, get on a plane. Try to think up some way to explain. Try to do something about this bizarre disease or curse that's been put upon me. One step at a time.

Stan finished, and leaned back, eyeing Harry a bit warily. Harry flexed his hands, and nodded. He picked up the owl cage, which he had covered with a sheet so as to be less noticeable.

"Thanks, Stan. I appreciate this, I mean it." Harry told the bus driver sincerely.

All he got was a hunted look, and a glance towards the door. "Will there be anything else, ?" He asked, a bit hoarsely, not staring anywhere but ahead..

Harry sighed. This curse thing sucked. Badly.

"Yeah." Harry replied softly, and a bit sadly. He pointed his free arm at the bus driver. "Obliviate."

A silver flash issued out of the sleeve of his coat. Stan's eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and he slumped against the wheel, unconscious as Lockhart had been in the Chamber. Harry bit his lip in frustration.

"Sorry. I owe you a hundred Galleons." Harry muttered, opening the door and letting himself out, leaving the man slumped over the driving wheel.

He stepped out onto the pavement, glancing around nervously.

There were Muggles everywhere. Loading trolleys, talking to bellhops, pulling various pieces of luggage. Harry looked down once, and after determining he didn't look terribly out of place, in his black coat and jeans, even though he may have looked a tad haggard around the eyes, considering it had been quite the long, stress filled day for him.

As long as the cloth bandages strapping his wand and Stan's wand to both of his arms held, he was set to go. They had been a rather inspired improvisation, in his personal opinion. He didn't want to muck with his hands any more than he had to.

This was the reason he jumped nearly a foot in the air, when a voice came in his ear.

"Excuse me?"

Harry whirled around, his eyes wide and frantic.

He blinked, when he found not Death Eaters, fearful men or lustful women, but simply one plain blonde woman, who was blinking in surprise at his jumpiness.

Well, plain was a very poor description, to be fair. The woman was utterly gorgeous, an athletic yet lush body, with large doe-brown eyes and a slow, sultry Texas drawl. But that was it; just a very pretty girl, not acting in the least bit strange towards him.

"Y-Yes?" He stammered, still slightly bewildered by this woman. He could see the men around him glancing his way fearfully, and women hungrily, but this one female seemed completely normal.

"Well, I was wonderin' if you could help me and my girlfriends through the checkpoint. I know you speak the same language'n all, but sometimes you guys are just kinda hard to understand." She drawled lazily, her eyes completely free of any heat or malice. She was just a woman asking a favor.

Harry blinked. "Er-well, I-"

"Christie!" A voice shouted from behind Harry. The accent was distinctly American.

Harry craned his neck to see three other girls trotting over. One was a tall, willowy raven-haired woman with her nose in a brochure, the other an exuberant pale skinned red-head who was trotting over, pulling along a suitcase by the wheels. A brunette trailed in back, wearing a fur-trimmed coat and looking decidedly snotty.

One other thing; they were all also completely knock-outs.

"Is this the guy? He's cute! Right, Vesna?" The red-head declared brightly.

Harry recoiled slightly from that. He waited tensely for some attempt at physical contact.

Which never came. She simply stood there, smiling brightly at him.

"I-I didn't agree to anything yet!" Harry stuttered. He was, for the most part, ignored by the four, something that was some mix of shocking, annoying and relieving.

"This von?" The fur-trimmed coat lady, Vesna's, apparently, voice was distinctly thick; something Slavic or Germanic. She sniffed. "He vill do, I suppose."

"Hmm. Well, what do you think, Aveline?" The drawl addressed the tall, bookish girl, who jumped slightly at being addressed, before spots of color appeared in her cheeks.

"I-..." This accent was French. "I do not mind 'im." She replied meekly.

"Great!" said the red-head. She smiled at Harry, who was getting a tad dizzy from snapping his head back and forth to follow the conversation. "My name's Elizabeth; You can call me Lizzie!"

"Ho-Hold on, just one second!" Harry protested heatedly. They all turned to look at him, as if surprised he could even speak. "I never said I would do anything! And stop acting like I'm not even here!" He admonished them.

The red-head pouted, and hooked her arm around Harry's. "Aw, come on, ple-e-e-e-ase?" She batted her dark-green eyes, not too unlike Harry's own, shamelessly.

Harry began to jump back, shake loose, tell her down-

and abruptly felt a rush of heat, like a warm breeze through his bones, pass over him. He almost immediately felt a small measure of calm. Why couldn't he do this? They were just asking for a translator. Besides, he had no idea how or where to buy a ticket in an airport. They could give him directions, advice, tips. And besides, it would be relief to have some pleasurable company instead of what he had been dealing with for the last twenty-four hours.

"A-All right." Harry found himself agreeing. Elizabeth-or Lizzie-let go of his arm with a small cheer, and Harry felt slightly dizzy as the warm flush left his system, and a bit regretful for making such a snap decision. Well, I already told them I would, and there are some benefits to this. He mused, after a moment's thought.

"Thanks, stranger." Christie drawled. There were murmurings of the same from the other two girls. Harry rubbed the back of his head with one bandaged palm.

"So, er-...where do you need me first?" He asked blearily. Lizzie very nearly squealed, and cuddled his arm a second time, bringing that strange rush of heat once more, and that small measure of calm and confidence.

"He's so cute! I love his accent, too!" She exclaimed, as she half-dragged, half-coaxed him through the doors to the airport.

None of them noticed the gaze of a single, normal looking man standing in the crowd, before he pressed a very special place on his forearm, shortly heading inside to tail them.

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, rubbing his temples while nursing a small glass of firewhiskey. He barely drank alcohol at all save at festivities such as the End of Year party for the professors, the Christmas feast (And only a single glass at that; it would not do to become utterly pissed in front of over a hundred impressionable young minds), and in very stressful situations.

This classified as one of the latter.

The whole situation was almost a complete disaster. Petunia Dursley's death had been rather gruesome; her face was nearly melted off, like Muggle plastic, and then they discovered that everything inside her head had been reduced to very fine ash, after Remus had commented that her cranium had felt a bit light and they had peeled it open to investigate.

Whatever had killed her had obviously been very Dark magic. Dumbledore doubted any normal spell could produce such a macabre effect. Dark magic, fueled by emotions of anger or hate or malice, was volatile and unpredictable in a way even he sometimes struggled to completely comprehend, despite a lifetime's worth of study.

And Harry was the only magical person in all of Privet Drive. Dumbledore had made quite sure of that. It wouldn't do for the boy to know that a few streets over, a girl and her brother, a normal pair of twins, had also discovered their potential, and had been shipped off to one of the other magical schools in Britain, their summer actually overlapping a few weeks of Harry's. Dumbledore didn't even recall her name, having moved the family by excuse of 'winning' a new home just the previous year.

He had, as some form of penance, paid for it himself, a very nice house in the States, near one of the most prestigious schools the United States had to offer. It had taken quite the dip into his funds, depleting nearly half his quite full vault at Gringotts. Being Headmaster of the most famous school in Britain had it's perks, after all.

Harry, Harry, if only I could afford you companionship. The legendary wizard's eyes tightened sadly. But the risks are simply too great. You were, are our only hope, and you had to, have to remain untainted. As untainted as I can manage.

It was a difficult song he was forced to dance to; balancing Harry's childhood, growing up as normally as he possibly could to avoid bringing up another Tom, another Dark Lord, while keeping him safe from Voldemort. Dumbledore regretted the choice he made every time he looked at their young savior-to-be.

But now, it seemed he may have failed his task. Dumbledore could see no other path. Harry had killed Petunia using Dark magic. In vain, he had searched for motives, some reason other than the boy falling to his resentment and anger, some reason Harry may have murdered his Aunt other than the most dire one.

Could Tom have possessed him? No, he had triple checked the wards preventing spirits of any kind entering Little Whinging, that could not be. And most especially over that distance.

Could the curse scar be affecting him? The unwilling Horcrux, portion of the Dark Lord Voldemort's soul, be poisoning Harry's spirit, his mind, twisting it in terrible ways Dumbledore could not hope to fathom? If so, then the boy was an incredible actor; the Headmaster was not being arrogant when he called himself a good judge of character, and a master at reading people, not just through Legimency.

And he had always kept one eye on the boy. He assured Harry constantly that he was always open for talk, had the portraits of the school give reports to him every now and then on how the fledgling hero was faring. If Harry had been hearing voices inside his head, or felt sudden violent or dark moods, Dumbledore was fairly sure he would have told him. The boy had been thankfully forthcoming about the lightning bolt carved upon his brow, and several nightmares he occasionally had, but nothing he had not expected.

Then...what? What could have caused Harry to perform some powerful Dark spell Dumbledore was positive the boy didn't know (He had kept such texts and people who knew them far out of his reach, after all), and then cause him to run, without a word?

And there was no doubt of the spell's strength; oh, no. The whole house had reeked of Harry's magic, far more so than was normal, and the boy's room had felt as though a few Dark wizards had had an epic battle in it. The way the wards may have created a sort of greenhouse effect to the magic cast may have explained this, but it still did not explain how Harry would come upon any such spell of Dark origins, and perform it wandless to boot.

Vernon and Dudley had been incredibly hard to deal with. The elder had been screaming his head off about 'freaks', and Dudley had been demanding to know where his mother was, so she could make lunch.

Unfortunately, this had forced Dumbledore to call in the Ministry Obliviators, since covering up a death like that in a person's mind was beyond Sirius's skill, which meant Cornelius had caught wind of it, and Dumbledore had had no choice but to explain the situation to him.

After about an hour long harangue about respecting governmental authority, Dumbledore was left to call up his contacts and spies to look for their runaway Boy-Who-Lived.

After this, Dumbledore had retreated to his office with the mug of firewhiskey. Had he said glass? He had meant mug. A very tall mug of strong firewhiskey.

Oh, my boy...why did you have to run? Why did you run? Fear? Anxiety? Or, as I fear, to escape me? Dumbledore peered into the crimson depths of his glass sadly. I knew the Dursley's were too much to handle. I should have listened to Minerva. I was a fool. I am a fool. An old, doddering fool...I suppose Tom must be right about some things...

About half of the glass remained, leaving the Headmaster's thoughts in a blissful buzz that he knew he would quite regret later. The magical world, for all of it's wonders, had yet to develop a perfect hangover cure.

Perhaps I shall set Severus upon that. Youngest Potions Master of the century, he should be able to whip up something to banish that headache like a pesky cobweb...but, no, I couldn't do such a thing. He hates it when I impose upon him, and he wouldn't let me live it down for years...

A sharp tapping interrupted his muddled thoughts, cutting through the haze like a knife.

Dumbledore twisted in his seat, and was shocked into action when he saw a quite familiar snowy-white owl scratching impatiently upon his window

He lurched from his seat, and his hands fumbled with the clasp of the glass for a moment, before the legendary wizard flung it open, rattling the casing with the force.

Hedwig flew a short distance to his desk, and held out her leg impatiently. Rather than trust his shaking hands, he drew his wand and preformed a quick cutting curse, slicing the ribbon neatly, even in his current state of mind.

He nearly tore the envelope apart, trying to bring the text to his vision, hoping for some explanation, some motive he had not thought of to rekindle his faith in the boy he so desperately wanted to believe in.

He slumped despondently as he read the perfectly normal letter.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm afraid I have a problem. Ever since I got out of the hospital, and a little of the time in it, people around me have been acting weird. The blokes act like I'm some wrathful god of vengeance, and pissing me off means instant destructions, and all the women won't leave me alone! I need help. Do you think this is related somehow to the graveyard thing? You know, more accidental magic on my part? I've been keeping my temper, I haven't got angry once, and I haven't been feeling any extreme emotion. Do you have anything to make people leave me alone?

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

"My dear..." Dumbledore addressed the owl. "I shall assume Harry wrote this from Privet Drive?" He asked disappointedly.

Hedwig hooted an affirmative. Dumbledore sighed, and scanned over the letter once more.

It seemed that the boy was becoming aware of his fame, or infamy, with the recent Daily Prophet articles. Dumbledore was relieved to hear the boy keeping his temper, since he still hadn't discovered the cause of the strange fire Harry had seemingly been able to summon, to save himself, and he was slightly worried that the boy might see through the deception he had played at 's. Harry was a bright boy, learnt quickly, and if he only applied himself, could likely become as powerful as Dumbledore himself. The way he managed to keep his above average grades while doing almost nothing but classwork proved this.

Harry taking awareness of the effects fame had on people made the constant gamble he was taking all the more risky. Because when one had such fame, it could be used to manipulate those around you ever so easily, as demonstrated by Gilderoy Lockhart. He would have to lecture the boy on keeping a level head and not becoming too arrogant once he found hi-

An iron cup on a rod on one of his shelves began spinning, creating a soft humming in the air. Dumbledore immediately summoned it so him, and watched quickly as the tracking charm, which leeched slightly off of Harry's magical core to run, did it's work, fiery words appearing on a plate slightly below the spinning noise-maker.

Dorset, England, Bournemouth Airport

Dumbledore nearly hit himself in his stupidity. Of course if Harry was seeking to run, he would use Muggle means! He had, after all, been raised by Muggles. Now, all he had to do was call up several Order members, and have them go retrieve him.

As if set off by these simple words, a short orb with a hole on it, not unlike a teakettle missing it's handle or lid, began whistling fiercely, a haunting gale, and Dumbledore did not need any words to know what that meant.

It was the Dark Mark proximity alarm. There were Death Eaters near Harry.

Dumbledore only tapped his wand on the silver phoenix necklace that hung around his neck all the quicker, before quickly grabbing Floo Powder and disappearing in a flash of green fire.

"Here, try these on!"

Harry blinked, and turned to the red-head scooting up next to him, holding out another pair of glasses. He scratched his head.

"Why? I mean, these glasses work fine." Harry poked his round-rimmed spectacles to emphasize this point.

This was actually mostly a lie. His vision was blurry, ever so slightly, since he hadn't had a check-up in several years. But they had served Harry well through the years, and he was reluctant to let go of them.

Lizzie sighed dramatically. "But they're so boring! Just try these on, they used to be an old friend of mine's. Maybe it's better!" She pushed the pair of glasses forward a little more.

Harry plucked them out of her fingers and looked at them. They were different in style than his wide rims, being a little more curvish and oval, like the ones he saw on most adults these days.

Something on the end of one of them caught his eye. He squinted at the small sparkling thing, wedged at one of the ends, almost unnoticeable.

"Is that a...diamond?" he asked incredulously.

"What? Are you kidding?" Lizzie asked, in a disbelieving tone. "You think I would give away a diamond?" Her hand grasped his, gentle but strong, rushing his blood with heat. "Just try'em on. For me, 'kay?" She asked brightly.

That makes sense, I guess. Harry mused. I mean, a diamond? It's probably just glitter or something. And maybe it is better than my old ones.

Harry slid his glasses off, and slid the new ones on.

For a second, his vision was even blurrier than before. Then, it got stronger, too strong, before it was suddenly perfect, bringing the world into perfect clarity. Well, that was queer. He thought. ñbut wow, what are the chances this friend of hers would have the exact same prescription as mine?

None. That sudden, cold epiphany struck him like a bucket of cold water. It was like his mind had focused straight with his vision. Something was definitely out of place.

For one, Vesna had introduced herself as a model, and introduced Elizabeth, Aveline and Christine as her friends who she had paid for to come with her. That meant she had traveled quite a bit, right? There was no reason for her friends or her to need someone with them to make sense of the British accent. She would be used to it, and besides, there would be people in the employment already capable of doing this!

And what were the chances of them being the only ones not affected, and everyone suddenly stopping acting weird as they walked him to their terminal? None at all.

This whole situation smelled wrong. Suddenly, Lizzie's curious eyes seemed all too sharp as they watched Harry from one side, just as Aveline did from the other side, peering at him from over her brochure while Vesna and Christie went to go and buy him a ticket.

"How are they?" asked 'Lizzie'. Harry felt a cold sweat break out on his temple.

"Fine. I have to go to the loo." Harry announced quickly, before standing up, and taking two steps to the right, the way he had came.

"Hey, wait!" She protested, grabbing his shoulder. Then, she stopped dead like a statue, her cheeks gaining an unnatural flush and her eyes locking on Harry's. Her hand tightened slowly on his shoulder as she licked her lips.

Aveline stood up fluidly, with a strange grace, and yanked her companion's hand from his shoulder. As soon as the red-head broke contact, she recoiled as if she had been slapped.

"There iz a bathroom over there." Aveline informed him quickly, pointing just across the hall, where a 'Men's' sign hung. There was no sign of the shyness she had shown before.

His thoughts were racing. I have no idea whether these women are dangerous or not. I have no idea of their power, or who they're working for. Or what they'll do if I try to run.

Harry, to his credit, only paused a moment, before nodding, and walking slowly over to the door, before letting himself in.

The loo was empty save for him, and a single man who walked slowly, as if in a daze, out the door. Harry ignored him, and leaned heavily on the sink, as he thought out his options.

Escape. I need to get away from these girls. They could be Death Eaters in disguise. Did I see any Dark Marks? A sleeveless shirt. Christie had been wearing a sleeveless tan shirt with a jean skirt. I'm nearly positive I didn't see one on her. Can you hide a Dark Mark? Probably, or all the Ministry would have had to do was check people's arms to find Death Eaters. Is there any way out of this bathroom other than the door?

Harry looked around. There were no windows. He saw an air vent, but Harry did not fancy himself some terribly athletic person. Not nearly enough to get up in there.

Even if they're not, I can't take that chance - oShit, I shouldn't have left my invisibility cloak at Privet Drive. In fact, even running in the first place was a stupid idea! I'm such a damned idiot! Harry took several more moments to berate himself, before taking several deep breaths, and setting himself on the task ahead.

Okay, Okay, focus. Eyes on the prize. Way to get away from them. Hungry? No, they can just come with me and say they are too. Thirst, the same. Harry binned that idea, remembering the vending machine not too far from where he had been sitting. Maybe a different flight from them...wait, where did they even say they were going? They didn't! They never said! They can just tell me they're going on the same flight as I am!

There was a thwack of wood on flesh as Harry's fist met the sink. Idiot! I am such a moron! I was too busy staring at their breasts and asses and bodies to notice what was coming out of their lips!

A sudden thought struck him, along with a wave of paranoia. Am I taking too long? Might they come in and get me if I do? He glanced at the door.

It was this paranoia that saved him, as a Death Eater walked in through said door.

"What is wrong with you, Elise!" Aveline hissed quietly in French, to the disguised Veela, who was still coiled up like a ball, staring at the door their target had disappeared through. "Grabbing him? Letting him see the inhibitor diamond I melted into the frame? You're going to spoil the mission!"

"Silence, Aveline!" Snapped Elise heatedly. "I am your captain, how dare you show me such disrespect!"

"Yes, you are my captain!" Avelina spat. "You are not supposed to touch him, supposed to enthrall him in such a manner! The Mistress wanted him untouched! You are supposed to be the person that Christiane and Veronique and I look up to as an example of perfect leadership, not a person who breaks the rules of capture!"

To this, the squad leader remained silent for a moment. Then, she shivered.

"You do not understand, Aveline. When I started this mission, I had wished...I had wished that if, perhaps, I imprinted myself, made myself remembered to this boy, perhaps when the Mistress takes him, she would perhaps let me have a turn." The words came out in a rush, and Aveline gasped scandalously in response, as she had known he would. It was a most improper attempt at manipulating their Mistress.

Elise curled herself up tighter, shivering and sending a horribly longing glance at the door that Harry Potter had disappeared through. "I...we miscalculated. The inhibitor diamond was not enough. Usually, it simply binds the aura within the body, but...his aura, it is too strong. The diamond has only brought it to about skin level, and...intensified it." She almost whimpered that last part. "It was...he was so strong, Aveline. It burned through my aura in a second. And then it..." A sharply drawn breath. "I have never felt such desire. Not ever. We have to get those glasses off. As soon as possible." Elise replied flatly, her gaze locked onto the door.

Aveline opened her mouth, to reprimand, to scoff, to deny-

-...and felt her words clog in her throat, as she felt magic suddenly thicken the air. Elise felt it too, staring around, as Muggles suddenly lost coherency and started slowly getting up, and leaving the area, leaving baggage, jackets, valuables behind without a care.

"A Muggle-Barrier. And, if I'm not mistaken, a crude, but powerful anti-Apparation ward." Elise worded out slowly, as if tasting the air. "But who?"

"But nothing. Get up. Stay with the crowd. Don't. Break. Cover." Hissed Aveline, feeling none of the shame that should have come with ordering her own captain around like a fresh nestling.

"What about Veronique? And Christiane?" She asked, almost like a lost child, although following Aveline's orders, as they both stood and began to walk slowly and sedately out of the area.

"They know their jobs. Now shut up!" snapped Aveline quietly, suppressing the cold shock at the depth to which her captain had been shaken. Elise had always been the pillar of strength in the Doves, the cold flirt who used men without a care before discarding them like rotten garbage. But now...

She kept her gaze down, as black robed men swept past them, assuming that they were completely unnoticed due to the anti-Muggle ward now forcing them out. Elise was now almost shaking. She had lost her cool. The pillar was broken. And where there was an absence, there was always a need to fill it.

Well, the mission may be a failure, but at least we know who to tell the Mistress to ask when le Survivant goes missing. Aveline mused, as she gazed upon the impassive white metal masks of the Death Eaters, who were slowly moving towards the Men's Bathroom, wands drawn.

And perhaps, she might even help recommend a little change in authority in their little squad...

Harry threw himself back, one arm pointed, snarling. The red stunning curse sheared off several locks of his hair, and he landed on his back with a thump.

"Stupefy!" Harry cried.

Red bolts leapt from both of his sleeves, lighting the masked man up, as his back arched for a moment, before he crumpled to the ground.

Harry lay there, panting, for a single second, before he scrambled to his feet. Keeping both of his forearms leveled at the man, he slowly approached, kicking the man's wand into one of the stalls after a moment's thought.

Harry maneuvered his foot under the Death Eater's shoulder and pushed him over with a few choice kicks.

After another glance at the door, Harry knelt, and wiggled the metal mask off of his face.

It revealed an older man, with a trimmed goatee and rather severe eyebrows. No one Harry recognized, though he couldn't claim to recognize many.

He froze, and his head snapped to as the door creaked open. Another masked face poked it's way in, along with a wand at around waist level.

"Yaxley, do you-" He stopped, and quickly flourished his wand at Harry. "Everbero!"

A purple hex whizzed past Harry's ear as he twisted violently to dodge. With a crash, it took a large chunk out of the wall, sending tiles flying. One sizable chip hit Harry in his arm, and another on his temple, sending Harry careening to the left, under one of the sinks.

The other Death Eater advanced, performing that violent twist with his wand once more. "Everbero!"

Harry pushed himself as far as he could from the wall using his legs, as the sink exploded in a spray of water and wood. One of the larger splinters jammed into his leg, and Harry let out a roar of pain, curling up in a ball instinctively.

"Everbero!"

The magical bludgeon rammed into Harry, blowing him across the small loo with the force of a sledgehammer. He slammed into the wall, and fell, spreadeagled on the floor, his vision filled with stars from the impact. He groaned, one hand rising to wipe feel a wet spot in his hair he was fairly certain was blood.

He saw dark boots obscure his vision, and a even darker voice fill his ears.

"The Dark Lord only wanted you alive. He was mute to as the condition you had to be in, however." The voice was rather lazy, with an undercurrent of false cheer. "Crucio!"

Pain filled his body; pain became his entire world. He screamed himself hoarse as he felt a thousand hot knives stab him, and stab him again, and just kept stabbing...!

But more than that, pain became his focus, cleared the stars from his vision.

Harry locked onto the man's ankle with an iron grip, and glared up at the man with eyes rimmed red with pain and hate. "...Crucio." Harry whispered.

The Unforgivable hit the man in the leg at point blank. He dropped to the floor, convulsing and howling in pain.

Unfortunately, this was right atop of Harry. But the pain was gone, and now they were on equal ground.

Harry fought like an alley cat; He kicked, punched, bit any part of the nameless Death Eater that he could, for as long as he could hold the Cruciatious Curse. Soon, however, he had let the curse go, and was simply pummeling the man in any way he could. Harry was pretty sure he got a few good kicks to the head and groin in.

The Death Eater, to his credit, recovered quickly. And due to his larger weight and strength, it was no surprise that Harry soon felt himself slammed against the wall by his coat lapels, a faceless mask so close he could almost taste the iron.

"...You...will regret that...little boy!" Hissed the Death Eater, in a voice thick with pain and rage.

Surprisingly, Harry felt no fear or anger or defiance at this. His hand moved, as if in slow motion, stopping calmly on the man's chest. It was almost gentle. He knew what he had to do. It was so simple, it was almost ironic.

"Listen closely, little Harry Potter...for I will-!"

"...Avada...Kedavra." The words, so calm and sure, leaving his lips, like liquid platinum. Sounding so wrong, so out of place, like the destruction of a priceless masterpiece.

A green flash illuminated the depths of his coat sleeve, from the tip of his wand, issuing forth that so-familiar emerald bolt of death, entering the man's chest and ripping through whatever protections he may have had on his robes in complete whisper silence.

The grip on his coat loosened, before letting go completely, as the Death Eater slumped forward without a sound, sliding down Harry's torso cleanly. He actually knocked off Harry's glasses on the way down. He crumpled in a heap at his feet.

Harry stared down at the corpse, without a hint of emotion. I should feel something...right? I just killed him...with the Killing Curse. Unforgivable, right?

But there was no fear. No anger. No remorse. Just...sort of a feeling...a feeling of wrong-ness. That feeling seemed to hang in the air, like a heavy mist. It was easier, this time. Is it supposed to be easier? It is.

Harry, like a reflex, bent and pinched his glasses off of the floor, before settling them on his face. He stopped for a moment, staring at the body. It felt like something was missing.

He felt a brief compulsion to speak.

"Sorry...I didn't have a choice." Harry offered the corpse, as some means of explanation. Unsuprisingly, it offered no response. Harry scratched the back of his head. "You...er...fought pretty well...?" That sounded stupid. "You almost had me, I guess. Bad luck." Harry remained silent a second more. "I don't know if you had a family, or whatever...but you know? Screw them, and screw you!" That sounded...right, somehow. Correct, at least. A step in the right direction. "You made the decision to join up with Voldemort, and you decided to attack me! Not my fault you decided to stop and gloat. I'm certainly not going to lose sleep over your fuck-up."

That...that felt even better than before. "You got killed because you were stupid. Sucks to be you." Harry spat at the corpse coldly. It felt like he was getting a weight off of his chest. It felt good. "You know what? I'm not sorry. I'm not. I'm damned glad. Have fun in hell, you Death Eater bastard."

Harry nodded firmly, to no one in particular. He stepped over the corpse, and exited the bathroom without a single glance backwards.

Outside, he was confused to find positively no one there.

There was still the luggage and the bags, hell, even the tickets were still on the tables, but there was not a single person in sight. It was as if every single one of them had simply disappeared.

Harry looked around warily, expecting some sort of trap or ambush. He was not disappointed.

Slowly, as if in a rehearsed procession, Death Eaters appeared from both sides, in even lines, all wands drawn. Harry turned slowly, trying to keep them all in his sight, even though he knew it futile.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then-

"PROTEGO!" roared Harry, raising both his arms to bring two shimmering blue shields into place.

There were many other roars of spells from the Death Eaters, as well, as the bolts of light slammed into his shields. To Harry's credit, the shields actually lasted several seconds before giving way.

His left one was the first to go. Harry wasn't surprised, honestly, with it being Stan's wand and all.

Nearly a dozen curses slammed into his back. He felt his left arm snap, and something inside crack, before darkness invaded his vision, and he found the floor rushing to meet him.

And in the background, he could dimly hear a high pitched laugh, full of triumph.

Only two minutes later, Dumbledore rounded the corner with the entirety of the Order of the Phoenix at his back, all wands drawn and fully outfitted for magical battle.

All they found was Harry Potter's owl cage, sitting unattended next to one of the benches, and a crumpled piece of paper.

Said note, of course, sat on an overly elaborate silver pike driven into the ground, formed like a rising snake, with red eyes. The note lay in its fangs. Dumbledore sighed. Tom always had been rather blunt...

With a twitch of his fingers, the note flew from the snake's jaws. Several of the Order members, such as Remus and Sirius crowded around to get a better look.

They cringed in horror at what they saw. Some of them. Sirius let out a choked snarl, and Remus all but shook where he stood, looking fit to transform on the spot heedless of the fact that the full moon was over two weeks away.

Harry Potter is mine. Deliver the prophecy within two days, or I shall use my imagination to think up what to send you next. Portkey enclosed.

It was not the letter itself that scared them, despite the fact that the red ink it was written in was almost certainly blood.

No, it was the eyeball inside the paper, the emerald iris unmistakable, that fueled their terror and rage.

Sirius let out a nigh animalistic roar of rage, before blasting one of the plastic chairs into slag. He didn't look inclined to stop any time soon, either. The other members wisely kept their mouth shut and stayed out of his line of fire.

Remus just slammed his fist into the wall, and leaned there, eyes tightly shut. He rather roughly knocked off the first consoling hand that tried to find it's way to his shoulder or back.

And Dumbledore? He simply pocketed the paper quietly, wrapping the eye delicately in it, wiping away the single silvery tear that streaked down his face.

"So very crude" He whispered, his blue eyes downcast. "...Harry, that I had even the arrogance to doubt you!...forgive me..."

"Dumbledore, sir" Shacklebolt spoke up, his deep bass not quite as soothing as it usually was. "Orders?" He questioned, a tiny undercurrent of uneasiness in his voice.

Dumbledore hastily swiped his eyes. "Of course, Kingsley. Arrange a meeting with the Minister, as soon as you possibly can. Tell him that it's a matter of extreme urgency."

In his moment of complete defeat, words failed him. Dumbledore opened and closed his mouth, trying to deal with the sheer loss he had just suffered. The only thing he could possibly compare to this was the day he lost his dearest sister, Ariana, to his foolish ambition.

That could not happen again. Not again.

"Sir?" Kingsley queried after a moment's pause, quite unnerved by Dumbledore's own shock.

"National security. Tell him it's a matter of national security." No, that did not seem nearly strong enough. "Tell him his life and the life of every person in all of Europe, perhaps the world, hangs in the balance. Go, and tell him! Immediately!" Dumbledore snapped.

Shacklebolt nearly jumped, before Disapparating with a crack and haze of smoke. Dumbledore turned back, his eyes now glinting like two chips of hard blue steel. Had anyone seen them, they would have likely soiled themselves.

"Not again, Ariana. I will not let another innocent die because of my mistakes." He said in a quiet voice. Quiet like the way that a tomb was quiet.

Dumbledore's hand almost unwillingly strayed to his wand, the wand that he was sure had killed her.

"Not again."


	4. Chapter 4

In the town of Little Hangleton, in the dining room of the Riddle Manor, Tom Marvalo Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort calmly surveyed Lucienne Delacour, the Honored Fourth of the Veela Nation.

There were only six other people in the room. Bellatrix and Rabastus Lestrange, and Amycus and Alecto Carrow, his most trusted Death Eaters, and most powerful in his ranks in terms of magical power. They stood silently against the wall, ever so often cocking their heads challengingly at the two Veela attendants. Bellatrix in particular seemed quite vindictive, leering at them any time they so much as glanced at her.

The two Veela attendants were Colette Seraphin, and Aveline Sylvestre, both the Matriarch's finest soldiers. The third captain was likely handling her base of operations, while she was gone.

This brought to Tom's mind another question that had been nagging him, as he picked idly at his very rare steak, part of a rather extensive dinner he had had prepared, in the interest of courtesy. Why exactly was she here?

Certainly, she had gone through the proper channels to reach him, personally, contacting one of his known followers with the promise of an interesting proposition for him to listen to if they were to meet in person. The fact that she'd very obviously charmed the man into running it straight to him, running roughshod over the man's natural instincts to avoid a good Crucio (He cursed the man anyway; it was always good to enforce a lesson, after all), told him it was rather urgent.

She had even been wise enough to offer a bribe, a substantial one that was enough to bring his eye upon her, over several other dignitaries he had been toying around with.

Then, she'd really grabbed his attention when the sealed letter she left his minion was a blunt request to speak with him about a prisoner he had recently acquired. One of the questions running through his mind was how the hell she had found out about his capture of Harry Potter.

Dumbledore would not have let slip that. Fudge might have, but the Dark Lord had everything but his trips to the loo monitored. He would have heard of a Veela meeting with him.

Watching her daintily pick apart her side of meat, you might think the woman the most innocent person in the world. Voldemort felt a slight sneer slide onto his face, at any fool who would dare take this woman lightly. There was a good reason he had four Death Eaters in the room, besides a power show.

The fork spun idly over his skeletal fingers. His crimson gaze flickered towards her.

"I trust the meat is not overcooked?" He inquired lazily. His voice seemed overly loud in the silent room.

"It is perfect. My compliments to your chef." She replied, only a hint of lilt to her English. Her blue eyes rose momentarily, as she offered him a polite smile. Tom felt none of the giddy rapture most men would have felt before this woman.

Woman? No. Veela. Voldemort fixed the female with a calculating gaze, which she seemed not to notice, as she brought her fork, upon which a small square of meat was impaled, past her red lips.

He had dealt with magical creature races, before. Met with Fenrir Greyback in his own territory, broken bread with vampire clan leaders in their own cold dwellings. But the Veela, they were to be slightly more cautious with, simply because they seemed so...human. Lacking fangs and pale skin, or hulking figures and weak times of month, they could fit in with society, or even nearly be embraced, thanks to their enthralling auras and stunning beauty. It was hard not to underestimate them as being another of the same species.

Human? Me?...Not anymore. Am I human? No, I am something else. Something more. "As much as I would delight in engaging in pointless small talk with you for the next hour or so, I believe there is something you wish to discuss." Voldemort drawled, the fork spinning effortlessly over his knuckles.

Her utensil paused in it's descent, before she laid it lightly upon the table, and fixed her piercing yet soft azure stare upon him.

The Dark Lord scowled as he felt...something...brush against him, like a fish beneath the water. Inneffectual and fleeting, to him, yet he saw his followers shift uncomfortably against the wall, and saw Bella's eyes narrow in venom.

"Keep your aura in check, Honored Fourth." He spat venemously. "It will do no good against me." He had made quite sure of that, a long, long time ago.

There wasn't a single flicker of surprise on her face, unlike the small glances the two Veela bodyguards sent each hadn't expected one, either.

"Fair enough, Lord." She replied demurely, before the tendril was withdrawn. "I believe we both know what I came here for."

"Harry Potter." Tom replied, feeling a touch of distaste at even speaking his name. "What of him?"

"You have him. Here, in this manor." She added, as if a fleeting afterthought. Tom's scowl became a tad fiercer. Where was she getting this information, Merlin damn her?

He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "And if I do?" He asked calmly, as calmly as he could under the circumstances.

"I would like to take him off of your hands."

The Death Eaters jumped as he slammed his palm on the rich ebony table. "Absolutely not." The Dark Lord hissed. He raised one, dire finger at the woman...at the creature who dared even presume in such a way. "Harry Potter is mine!"

"Very well." She replied instantly, taking a casual sip of the fine wine he had procured for the occasion. Not poisoned, to his deep regret at the moment.

Her casual reply took him off guard. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he drummed his fingers slowly on the wood of the table.

"You would give it up? That thing which you worked so hard to appear before me to ask for? Just like that?" A small nugget of curiosity lodged itself in his voice, along with a wave of disbelief.

"Give him up?" She asked amusedly. "Heavens, no. I have no intention of giving him up." This made Voldemort tense slightly, in anticipation, feeling his bone white wand in it's holster on his wrist. "But I am willing to make a compromise, a bargain, if you will." She cocked her head slightly, watching as the Dark Lord's sneer regained it's foothold on his features.

"All the gold in Gringotts would not convince me to hand him over." Tom instantly replied, chuckling richly and darkly. "What else have you to bargain with, Fourth?"

For a moment, she was silent, taking another sip of her red wine. At the moment, the Dark Lord would have seriously considered trading his wand for a Time-Turner just to go back and poison that wine.

"You haven't been able to get near him, have you?" She asked, innocently studying one of the torches that lined the walls, their green flames flickering with Everlasting Fire.

Tom hissed under his breath. Now there was some information she had no right to knowing. He silently glowered at her.

"Oh, hit a nerve, have I, Lord?" She said coyly, smiling ever so slightly. "None of your Death Eaters will touch him, correct?" A scowl twisted his angular mouth. "And it frustrates you so, that they fear him more than you."

"...Get to the point." He snarled, seeing no point in denying the truth of her statements.

"You haven't killed him yet. And your Death Eaters fear to do it for you. My guess, is that you are uncertain if you could do it, no? If you are wrong, you might be gone for another thirteen years. Perhaps less followers will wait for you when you get defeated twice by the same little-"

She was interrupted the angry roar of the Dark Lord, as he tore the arm off of his own chair. The fires on the walls and candles flickered and jumped to new heights as his rage sent his magical aura blasting about the room. His Death Eaters cowered slightly, pressing themselves against the wall.

"Do not patronize me, you insignificant whore!" He screeched.

There were quiet hisses and growls from the two Veela at the door, as their nails grew a tad longer, and faces a bit more angular. The Death Eaters palmed their wands in a very suggestive manner.

Lucienne simply watched the tension with a delicately arched eyebrow, raising one hand to still her overprotective bodyguards in their tracks. The fires eventually returned to normal, although they flickered wildly still.

"One reason." The Dark Lord breathed venomously, his eyes like crimson lasers. "Give me one reason, Veela, why I should not strike you down where you stand!"

As if to needlessly antagonize the already furious Dark Lord, she took a casual swallow of wine, before letting her glass drop to the table, and resting her face casually on her palm.

"That is an interesting scar you wear, Lord." She remarked idly, staring at the black handprint upon his forearm.

Voldemort's eyes flickered to the enflamed wound, calculating, confused, enraged.

"It burns, does it not? Like nothing else you have felt. Whenever you approach him, it throbs, fights you, twists your gut into knots." She whispered, her angelic face seeming morphed into almost that of a demonic mistress in the poor light. "I can make it stop. Make your follower's terror disappear. All in exchange, for one small request."

Tom's breathing slowed, and he slowly brought his temper to a slow simmer. "And what...would that request be?"

She smiled, and the Dark Lord once again had to fight down images of innocence and trust.

"A talk. One little private chat, all of my own, with Harry Potter. You can watch, put as many Death Eaters around the room as you like. As long as I can have one private discussion with the boy, I can make all of your troubles-" She clapped her hands together, and smiled a little wider. "-disappear."

And the Dark Lord felt a slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

"Quickly. You must come quickly, now." Dumbledore barked to the two men following him. Sirius and Remus hastened their steps until they too walked beside the legendary wizard.

Dumbledore was actually slightly irritated at their presence, if empathetic. He would have preferred that the two remain at Grimmauld Place, but he knew that they would never accept that. The two were riding high on rage, the only thing that had kept them up for this long without sleep. He couldn't exactly trust their judgment. It was likely that the first thing they would do when they saw the Dark Lord would be to die vainly in some attempt at revenge.

But then, can I trust my own? That question troubled him greatly, considering the way that revenge was sounding rather tantalizing in this situation. The last time he had even considered such a notion was the day he nearly killed his once-greatest friend, Grindelwald.

They made their way hastily through the long, long rows of glass orbs, each shining with their own individual light of prophecy. Some fulfilled, some not, some trivial, some important.

And they were now forced to unlock the most direly important of all. The Unspeakables had been working around the clock to unravel the indescribably powerful wards they had placed around the prophecy, some of Dumbledore's design, some not.

Indeed, he had spent a good, long nearly twelve hours arguing with the Minister. It had been especially annoying considering the man's tendency to repeat himself, "He's not back, I tell you! He's not!" Had been heard enough times to make the old man's teeth ache.

Truly, I had no idea his delusions of power had gone so far...to leave an innocent boy in the clutches of the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time? Madness... He found himself somewhat glad he had left his wand at the desk. If he had had it with him, he likely would have cursed the Minister several times, just on general principle.

But Dumbledore himself felt regretful for the action he had to partake. Simply give Tom the prophecy, after so many years of concealing it? Perhaps he was a bit mad himself.

It was a very dangerous trade-off they were making. Give Voldemort the knowledge that he could, in fact, kill Harry, in exchange for the boy's safety. In any other situation, Dumbledore might have found it terribly ironic.

But now was not a time for humor. First came Harry's safety, even if it might break the uneasy cease-fire that had held since Tom became leery of attacking Harry, lest he take the chance of another Ariana.

It was selfish, completely so. As soon as Tom gained that knowledge, the Death Eater attacks would double, triple. He would feel secure in his feeling of apparent immortality. Lives would be lost.

Is it fair? One innocent life saved at the cost of countless others?...No, it is not. But we have no other choice. Dumbledore felt the weight of these murders, even yet uncommitted, press down upon his conscience like a lead chains around his chest. But he walked forward regardless.

"Here. Row Ninety-Seven." Dumbledore muttered, before turning sharply.

The orb in mention was blatantly obvious, having four Unspeakables crowded around it, wands at the ready. A fifth perked up and quickly strode to Dumbledore as he stopped outside of the half-circle around the glowing orb.

"We've got some bad news." He announced, without greeting or any such formalities. "We've only got about half the wards down. We had to improvise."

"Explain." Dumbledore ordered curtly. If his mental count was right, he had a single hour before the time limit was up.

"If you go in now, those wards will obliterate you instantly. Period. What we're going to do is pump it full of power, from five different sources at once. It should confuse the wards. They won't be able to tell who to kill. Overload them, one by one. Problem is, it'll take a while." The Unspeakable's mask concealed any emotions, but Dumbledore detected a hint of strain in his voice.

"A while? How long!" Dumbledore replied, a bit sharply.

"Half an hour. Maybe more. We've been at this all day, rotating shifts. Those four are the strongest in the division. They're also the last. We've been holding them in reserve so you could work with them." The Unspeakable jerked his head towards the four. "They're waiting for you."

Dumbledore brushed past him, drawing his wand in a single motion, taking a place as they shuffled aside to allow him a place.

"How shall we do this, gentlemen?" He inquired, his eyes locked upon the softly humming blue orb.

"Constant stream of power. At the same time. The same amount from each person, or the wards'll target the strongest and focus on them." One of them tersely replied. "Five's the minimum to keep it at bay. If one of us goes, we all go. It's been an honor working with you all." His voice held not a hint of fear at the possible death that waited for him. A common trait among those who dared traverse the halls of the Department of Mysteries.

Numerous repetitions of this statement passed along their short half-moon. Dumbledore's brows knit in concentration as they drew closer, wand tips hovering above the cool glass surface.

"On three...one, two, three." There was no shout or yell. They were professionals.

Their wand tips met the glass at exactly the same moment.

Immediately, Dumbledore had to fight the urge to send every iota of power blasting into the orb, as he felt his magical core and wand get locked onto like a sharp pincer, yearning to reach his heart.

He steadied his breathing, and forced his power to the level he felt his comrades in arms displaying, a steady, yet strong flow into the powerful protections that threatened their lives.

The pincer slowly grew weaker, after about a minute, drawing back, before the ancient wizard felt a sensation almost like that of pimple popping. The ward was broken.

"One down." The Unspeakable to his left commented.

Suddenly, another grabbed his power and started greedily sucking it up. Dumbledore wiped sweat from his brow with one hand, and narrowed his eyes at the innocent looking orb.

He would get the prophecy. He would save Harry Potter. Failure simply wasn't an option.

Harry gasped as he was brought awake, his face shining with sweat, by a cold voice all too familiar in his feverish dreams.

"Kill the spare."

"Pathetic."

"Disappointing!"

"JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS!"

A brief flash of crimson flame. Choking, blinding rage.

Redness everywhere.

Harry let out a low moan of pain, as his hands suddenly awoke with him, throbbing painfully. The cool steel around his wrists was almost a comfort, even so tightly drawn as they were.

His muddy thoughts swirled around that sensation. Wait...metal...wrists...?

He looked over at one of his arms, pulled above his hands in an unpleasant way by a shackle, bolted to a planked wooden wall. He twisted his head around one hundred and eighty degrees, and found his other hand similarly bound.

He tested them, pulling his hand towards him. He had a bit of leeway. Enough to put both of his hands in his lap, although he couldn't quite touch them together.

He looked up, from where he was slumped against the wall. The square room he was in was utterly bare, save for one lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a door on the other side of the room. It's light hurt Harry's eyes, and he winced, before looking down.

"So-" Harry's voice was raspy from fever and sleep. "You finally got me, did you, Tom?" The tone was indescribably bitter.

There was no answer. It didn't matter. He talked anyway.

"Well, it took you bloody long enough." Harry snorted, at the sheer ridiculousness of his own statement. "I mean, you're-what? The self-proclaimed big bad Dark Lord Voldemort, ooh, scary! All rights reserved, right? Got a whole fuckin' lotta minions and grunts to work with!"

His words were slightly slurred. His lips didn't seem to want to obey his brain's commands, stumbling over the words he wanted to use.

"But it takes you fourteen...almost fifteen years to catch me! That's pretty sad, Tom, if I do say so m'self." Harry made sure to put special emphasis on the name he so despised.

There was silence in the room. This annoyed and pissed the feverish boy off, for a reason he couldn't precisely place. It was almost as if the Dark Lord were mocking him with the quiet.

So he decided to make some noise.

"Come on in here, you foul, murdering son of a bitch!" Harry howled, stretching his restraints to the limit as he tried in vain to reach that coyly shut door. "You think I need my wand or fucking love to beat you! Well, come on in, Tommy boy, so I can lovingly BITE YOUR DAMN EYES OUT!"

Harry could almost hear the high pitched laughter echoing around his skull. He pulled as hard as he could against the chains. The metal did not yield an inch.

He took a deep breath, and screamed his lungs out. A wordless roar that needed no explanations, transmitting its message loud and clear. Defiance. Rage. Helplessness. An almost primal challenge.

"COME ON! COME ON! COME ON! COME O-uck!" Harry's throat caught, and suddenly hoarse coughs racked his chest. He fell over on his side, wheezing dryly, his head dizzy with vertigo and nausea.

Eventually, he was left simply curled into a ball against the wall, his throat raw and his body shivering uncontrollably from wasted adrenaline.

After a few minutes, he gained enough strength to push himself back against the wall, and simply put his head between his knees and wait.

He didn't know how much time passed. It felt like hours. Lots of hours. He busied himself with pushing little piles of dust into the space between his skinny knees, and then spreading them out, before starting all over again.

His stomach grumbled. Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"...Oi, Hey!" Harry called, almost playfully to the door across the room. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears, like sandpaper. "You know, if you're going to kill me, can you just Killing Curse me already? I'm knackered, and fuckin' starving! HEY! TOM! VOLDEMORT!" Harry scowled, when there was no answer. "Hey, fuck you, then!"

He then chuckled, before letting his chin rest on his knees.

"You know, Tom-" Harry began conversationally. "-Molly Weasley would have already killed me. I've sworn more in the last two days then I have in probably my entire life. Yep! She would'a torn my ear right off and left me to bleed. How does it feel being beat by a house wife, Tom? How does it feel, Voldemort!" Harry snarled.

The hushed shadows in the corners of the room did not answer. Harry sighed, craning his neck so his hand could reach his head to slap a mosquito he was pretty sure should not have been able to get in.

"You'd think a fuckin' Dark Lord could at least get some decent fuckin' screens..." He muttered darkly. He didn't know why he was swearing so much. Maybe it felt good? It did, sort of.

The next hour, he developed an even higher fever than before, along with shaking and chills.

His hands gripped the denim of his jeans, his teeth chattered, before he moved his hands back to bury them in his armpits. His shirt was dark and sticky, sticking to his chest with sweat.

"It's...it's f-f-fucking freezing in h-here." He ground out, as best as he could. Something clicked in his mind, and he pulled his hands out, and stared at the bandages that covered them. "F-F-Fuck." He cursed shakily. They must be infected...I knew I should have stopped to see a Healer or something. He berated himself uselessly.

Then, his head snapped up as the door opened. His teeth bared themselves in an instinctive snarl, his lip curling over his teeth.

"Bring it on, you-!" He began, before trailing off. "...pretty?" He finished dumbly.

It was a truth; the woman was pretty. Hell, she was bloody gorgeous, the kind of perfection that you remembered for your entire life. Silver hair, a slim yet lush figure that seemed to radiate femininity and grace from every pore. The fine gown she was wearing only accented that. Blue eyes that seemed to snatch your soul from your body and caress it gently.

She smiled slightly. Harry sucked in an uneasy and shaky breath.

"Who...who are you?" His voice cracked slightly. He had expected Voldemort, not some woman who looked like an angel descended from heaven.

"Someone who's been waiting to meet you for a very long time, ." Her soft voice sent goose-bumps rippling up his skin.

"Who..." He gritted his teeth as he asked his next question. "Who are you working for? To-...Voldemort?" He demanded roughly, mercilessly squashing any pangs of remorse he had. He couldn't afford any trust at the moment.

"No one but myself." She replied simply, folding her hands in front of her, and pacing a step to the side. "You've had quite the trying few days, haven't you...Harry?" A uncontrollable shiver raced up his spine. "No one's acting like they used to, you can't control your emotions properly, am I right? I'm sure it's all very hard to understand." Her voice was cool, sympathetic.

"How did you-?" Harry snapped his jaw shut, and cleared his throat roughly. "What do you know about me?" He snapped suspiciously.

The look on her face spread into honest surprise, and a bit of hurt that hit him like a dull weight. "I've been looking for you for a while. I was a friend of your mother's, Lily Potter."

"Mum?" The raw hope in that one word shocked him into instant defensiveness. "Don't lie to me! Who are you!" Harry snarled angrily.

She smiled gently. "No lies, Harry. As for what you're going through, well, let's just say I have some experience with what you're facing."

Harry felt a moment of indecision. Or maybe it was him weakening. It was hard to tell through the feverish haze.

"Wh-...What do you mean, 'experience'?" He asked slowly, feeling a small spark of hope flare up in himself regardless of the situation he was currently in.

"I'm a Veela, Harry." Just the way she said his name...Harry felt his already flushed cheeks grow hotter. "I went through the same thing when I awakened my powers."

Harry frowned, blinking blearily. It was hard to think at all with the heat pressing in on his cheeks.

"You...Veela...awakened-" Harry muttered sluggishly. An epiphany hit him like a lightning bolt, and he sat up straighter. "What you're saying is...impossible. I looked it up. There's no such thing as a male veela with powers." He answered, his eyes boring into hers, searching for answers.

"Not anymore, no." She laughed softly. "Would you like to hear a bit of history that's been very carefully blotted out and declared taboo by governments all around the world, Harry?"

Harry blinked. That was certainly blunt. "Er...it's relevant, right?" She nodded. "Then...I suppose."

"There once were...true male veela." She replied. "Not called such yet, of course. The Greek called them sons of Adonis. The English called them incubi. Dozens of different names, for different cultures. They were few in number, perhaps only a thousand in the world at a time, but each wielded tremendous power. Then they died. The End." She finished blandly.

That abrupt halt sent Harry's mind crashing into a wreckage of a thousand questions. "Died? How did they die? What about all that 'tremendous power'?" He blurted out.

She smiled again, but this time, it was sad. "Jealousy, Harry. Fear and jealousy. You have seen how the men around you act. You are the proverbial alpha-male. They can not help but feel threatened by you. And when many fearful individuals gather together, that which they fear, inevitably becomes that which they hate." She sighed. "And that much hate and fear inevitably leads to revolt. It has happened many times in history, and if humans ever cared to record both sides, you would know it."

"So...what?" Harry asked. "The humans revolted, and killed all the male veela? Just like that, for something I...they couldn't even control?" He queried, a growing feeling of unease building in his stomach. "That's...that's stupid! Barbaric!" He protested weakly.

"Yes, it was. But then, humans fear what they do not understand." She replied somberly. "It is an unfortunate truth, but a truth nonetheless."

Harry was silent for several moments, staring at his hands laying in his lap. "So, I'm a...son of Adonis? Male veela? How? Dad was a wizard, Mum was a muggleborn. I don't have any Veela blood in me." He asked, feeling out several of the doubts and holes he saw in this mystery Veela's theory.

"Oh, but you are wrong, my dear." She replied, almost exuberantly. "You do have a mite of Veela blood in you. An unawakened line from your mother's side. And that mite is all you need. You are incubus; a male veela, Harry. You've seen those effects for yourself. Your own aura, perhaps a hint of fire?" She asked.

Harry raised his hands for her wordlessly. Despair was slowly starting to dull his senses back into reality. "My hands. I got angry, and burned them." He replied flatly. He stared at the ground around her fine hard-toed slippers. "Look, it doesn't matter if I'm a male veela or not. Unless you have some sort of fool-proof escape plan cooked up, or I'm just imagining all this and there is not a Dark Lord and all of his army of highly trained magical psycho-paths outside that door, then I'm going to die, regardless." He deadpanned.

To his surprise, he heard her laugh. He looked up, furious. "It's not funny! I'm really going to fucking die!" He snarled.

She covered her smiling mouth with one hand. "Language, Harry. And you do not need to worry. Your safety is quite assured. Your Headmaster is on his way, to bargain for your release. I have no doubt he will be successful."

"Dumbledore...!" Harry murmured, feeling that spark previously crushed roar to back to life. "How do you know?"

"I have friends in high places, Harry. Now, I believe, it is time for me to go."

This sentence brought Harry back the issue at hand like a cold slap to the face. He lunged and desperately stretched out a hand towards her retreating form.

"Wait! What am I supposed to do about my powers? Who are you! What's your name?" He pelted her relentlessly with questions.

She stopped in mid-stride, before turning, a small smirk on her face.

"Ah yes...we cannot have you running around like that, can we?" She murmured.

She advanced upon him quickly, crossing the room in several quick steps. Harry froze when her hand drifted to the side of his face, brushing his skin in the process as she knelt. She was perfectly composed as her hand brushed aside his hair to suddenly grab the end of his glasses.

Warm...her hand is really warm...were the only coherent thoughts he could gather, being in such close proximity with her perfect, heart-shaped face.

Suddenly, Harry felt a brief stab of pain, in the side of his neck.

"I-Er-W-W-What are you doing?" He stammered, as she smiled. This close, he could see just the way her full, red lips curved ever so slowly upwards...

She just as suddenly withdrew her hand, and stood back up to her full height. "You shouldn't have any more problems, now. I've enchanted your glasses to keep your aura inside you, along with the rest of your male veela powers."

Harry gaped a little, one hand rising to feel the plastic end of his glasses, where she had touched. It felt warm to the touch. "Just like that?" He asked.

"Just like that, my dear. Do keep those glasses on." She advised. "Now, one question, darling. Would you like to control them?"

"Huh?" Harry replied stupidly, still somewhat dazed by all of his fears being so suddenly lifted like that. "Control what?"

She snorted slightly, and smiled. "Your powers, silly!"

"Oh!" Harry blushed rather hard, thankfully hidden by the fever. "I..."

Memories flashed through his mind. Black robes burning. Death Eaters burning, running from him. Death Eaters surrounding him.

The graveyard. Cedric's death.

All his fault. All because he was too slow, too weak to stop them.

"-...They were few...but each wielded tremendous power."

"...tremendous power..."

All because he wasn't strong enough. Because he didn't have enough power.

"...yes. I do." Harry replied firmly. "Can you teach me?"

Her smile widened, and Harry felt, oddly, a trickle of fear.

"But of course, my dear Harry. Rest assured, I will contact you, once you're back at that school of yours."

She patted his cheek, which Harry had to concentrate not to lean into, before she turned, and began to open the door. Another question struck Harry.

"Y-Your name! I never got it!" He blurted quickly.

She twisted her head around, a kind smile on her face. Harry could feel his knees damn near turn to jelly, though that might have been a side effect of the infection.

"You may call me Lucienne. Stay strong, Harry." She offered softly, before letting herself out. The door closed with a sharp click.

Harry stared at the closed door a moment longer, before letting his gaze drop to his hands, his thoughts in utter turmoil.

But one thing was for sure. Dumbledore was coming. He was getting out of here. That one thought brought such a painful burst of happiness that he could not help but smile weakly, even totally nauseous as he was.

He flexed the digits of his hands, wrapped firmly in cloth as they were. They moved slow, too slow, because of the lack of proper muscle on them.

"...so it can be controlled..." Harry whispered, his green eyes wide in the darkness.

Slowly, he began to unwind his bandages.

The smile disappeared the moment the Matriarch stepped out of the room, replaced with cool disdain. The two Death Eaters on duty cringed slightly. Voldemort stared silently through the glass window at Potter, charmed to look like part of the wall from inside.

"It's done? He's...reachable, now?" The Dark Lord queried, staring with narrowed eyes at the small form of the Boy-Who-Lived, curled up into a ball like he was.

"Not by you, no. It's the wound that's magical, not him. It will heal in time." The Fourth replied indifferently. "But yes, your Death Eaters will desist from fearing him."

The Dark Lord's mouth twisted into a scowl, but he said nothing. "What did you do to him? How did you do it?" He demanded, staring straight into her eyes.

Lucienne smiled as she felt the lightest prick of Legimency, before bringing up her mental barriers with the ease of long practice. Tom's scowl only deepened.

"I've fulfilled my part of the bargain, as have you, despite your subtle attempts to breach the silencing ward I placed around us." She offered a wry smile, to which he snarled and snapped his head aside, though out of anger or embarrassment at being caught, she did not know. She silently thanked the magicked earrings she wore, allowing her that small bubble of privacy she had used. "My business here is finished. I will take my leave."

As she brushed past him, he reached out and stopped her with one hand. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as he leaned in closer.

"I will know the truth, one way or another. I know that something has changed within the boy." The Dark Lord hissed. "I believe it would be in your best interests to cooperate."

Her mouth twisted into a silent frown.

Suddenly, Voldemort roared in pain, and released her shoulder, grasping the palm-mark scar on his arm, which had chosen that moment to suddenly explode in pain. The Matriarch brushed an invisible speck of dirt off of the shoulder he had touched, while he stared in undiluted fury at the Veela.

"What you believe is no concern of mine. And you're no position to assume anything about the boy, considering you can't take a single step into that room." Lucienne replied icily. "And I warn you; do not try, until those scars have healed up. Unless you very dearly wish for a rather short and abrupt demise."

With that, she turned sharply and headed down the stairs, where her two bodyguards were waiting. Colette held out a length of silky black cord, which she laid a strong grip on, along with Aveline, before there was a tug at their navel, and they were Portkey-ed away.

The Mistress of the Forsaken Nursery didn't miss a step as they landed in her room at the bottom of her tower. Instead, she simply reached two slim fingers up the sleeve of her dress, and pinched out a needle, full of a familiar red substance.

"Take this to the analyzers on the second floor." She ordered them quickly. "It's the boy's blood; we need to work on cracking his genetic code before we can proceed with our dream of the future." My dream. She mentally corrected.

Aveline took it almost reverently, plucking it from her fingers before sprinting up the staircase, three steps at a time.

"Colette." Her voice was like a whip crack.

The Veela righted herself and stood at attention. "Yes, my Mistress?" She inquired politely.

"Take a team. Get into Hogwarts. I don't care how. I want updates on the boy around the clock. Spare no expenses. Whatever you need, get it. Money is not an issue." Her mouth curved in a predatory smile. "When the boy changes his stripes, I think it wouldn't be at all polite if we kept him from his herd too long, would it, darling?"

Colette felt her mouth go a tad dry. "Yes, Mistress." She replied. "I will not let you down." She replied, a zealous tone and a heated edge to her voice.

"I know, my dear." Lucienne replied gently. The Matriarch did know. There was a reason she had assigned Colette to her most rebellious squad, after all. Who else to lead the squad she trusted least then the Veela she trusted most? "Go."

Colette was gone in almost an instant. The Fourth sighed, and sat down on her heavily cushioned chair, satisfied for the moment.

"Harry Potter...hmm, the bitter irony. The greatest power rising from the weakest." She murmured, picking up a cup of tea on her desk. Cold. "I greatly look forward to spending more time with you, boy..."

She snapped her fingers, and a green flame appeared above one fingertip. She waved it under the cup several times, heating the drink back up to it's original temperature.

She took a delicate sip. Soon...soon, the male Veela shall rise again...and who else to guide the fledgling lords but the one who brought them back?

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. His old skin shown with a faint sheen of sweat. The many, varying wards' minor effects were taking their toll on him.

The Unspeakables around him were in similar states of exhaustion, slumped over, but keeping their wands firmly pressed to the orbs.

His mental count told him he had only three minutes and thirty seven seconds remaining. My own protections are killing me...the irony is positively sickening. He mused.

He didn't have enough time to wait. Those protections had to disappear.

"...please forgive me." He murmured, so soft that only the Unspeakable on his left heard, turning slightly.

"What?"

"We are running out of time. The wards must fall now." Dumbledore replied, a bit louder, so the rest could hear.

There was only a brief pause, as they took this in. Then, their team leader nodded.

"Very well. Switching to full power...now." It was incredibly calm, for a man who had just then signed his death sentence.

And they blasted the orb with all of their might.

Dumbledore gritted his teeth, as the ward naturally targeted him first, being the most powerful magically of the group. He battered it down with a brutal blast of magic, before another claimed him.

The Unspeakable next to him shuddered, before falling silently to the ground in a heap, power stolen and utterly dead.

Dumbledore's teeth bared in a silent snarl as the wards set upon him and the other Unspeakables in an almost gleeful manner. Two Unspeakables fell dead without a sound, leaving only Dumbledore and the leader.

The leader of the Unspeakables, in an act of almost infinite calmness, turned his cowled head to Dumbledore, his face nearly illuminated by the lights show of their auras battling with that of the protections on the prophecy.

"It is done." He uttered softly, before crumpling slowly to the ground, claimed by the vicious protections.

Dumbledore let his magical aura fade, before slumping wearily. The only Unspeakable left, the one set as the watcher, stepped forward, and hoisted one of the corpses up by the arms. "I'll tell their families. I've just let the wards down. You've got thirty seconds before I bring them back up, and travel in and out by magical means becomes impossible again." His voice was cool, and completely emotionless, as he hauled away the remains of his comrade, quite possibly his friend.

Dumbledore nodded wearily, before reaching out with one gnarled hand and grasping the almost innocuous seeming orb in one hand, and turning away, guilt weighing heavily on his heart.

The two former Marauders were at his side in almost a second. Their faces were set in hard, grim lines.

Dumbledore fumbled in his pocket and produced the eyeball. A growl rose in Sirius's throat, and the legendary wizard watched the skin around Remus's clenched fists turn white with strain.

"All hands." The Headmaster ordered softly, laying a single finger upon the morbid Portkey. It was soon joined by two other reluctant ones. "Portus Activus." He intoned.

Soon, the three men were gone from the Department of Mysteries, leaving it in silence and gloom once more.

SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF

Dumbledore's brows knit in concentration as they drew closer, wand tips hovering above the cool glass surface.

"On three...one, two, three." There was no shout or yell. They were professionals.

Well, most of them.

Suddenly, one of the Unspeakables turned. "Wait, d'you mean one two three GO, or one two THREE?" He asked, a bit sheepishly.

"You fool!" The leader exploded angrily, his wand firmly touching the glass orb. "You have-urgh!" He gurgled, before he fell to the ground, along with Dumbledore and the other two Unspeakables, their bodies smoking in their death.

The watching Unspeakable sighed and palmed his forehead.

"I'm new here!" The only remaining Unspeakable cried defensively, before fleeing down the corridor. "DON'T JUDGE ME-E-E-E-E!" He wailed.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay,think anger-fury-fire- He stared down, raising one finger, resisting the urge to retch at the smell or the sight.

He had no idea how to control the aura. Hell, he couldn't even tell it was gone. Harry didn't know if male veela had a 'angry' form, like the veela at the World Cup, so he had decided to concentrate on the only power he could vouch that existed. The fire.

The veela's fire was green...mine was red...is there a difference? Harry pondered this for a moment, before shaking it off. Later. First, fire.

He glared at the tip of his finger, as if he could ignite it with the mere power of his stare. That thought brought another notion to bear.

I don't want to light my finger on fire, even though it's doubtful I'd feel it...I want a fire just about above it. Like a match. I doubt I could snap my fingers, considering their...er...condition, at the moment.

Harry concentrated on the feeling he had when he first seen the crimson flames. Anger, most certainly. But he wanted to control the fire, so...what? Suppressed anger?

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes before delving into his memories for suitable material. It wasn't hard to find.

"Kill the spare."

"Freak!"

"BOY!"

"JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS!"

Harry gritted his teeth, letting the experiences and remembrances wash over him. There was a large amount of regret, grief, and guilt but oh, yes, there was a good dollop of anger in there.

His eyes fixed his finger with twin green lasers of contained fury. Come on, fire, fire Fire! BURN, DAMN IT!

It started small, almost invisible. One tiny, individual red spark danced lazily on the tip of his finger.

Harry felt a fierce grin spread across his face, as he saw the tiny light at the end of his index finger. He took a deep breath, and pushed his anger into that spark.

It flickered weakly, before igniting into a tiny, tiny flame, smaller even than a candle. Yet it was there, and it was real. Harry could feel it's heat, as he brought it closer to his face. It put out a great deal of warmth for just a tiny flicker. And if it was larger...? The young savior felt a bubble of excitement and determination build within his chest, like a monster roaring to get out.

But, as he expected before, the anger slowly drained away. It wasn't real anger, after all, just a sort of forced fury. The flame flickered and died, and Harry scowled.

But it was a start. And using it...the veela fire, instead of fearing it, felt good. Exhilarating. Liberating. Like the glow of satisfaction after a long struggle.

The door opened, and Harry hastily let his hands drop to his sides.

A Death Eater, rather short, and fat looking, shambled in, holding a tray of food. Harry's mouth watered, as he tried to remember the last time he had eaten. More than a day, at the very least. Maybe two. This made the hunk of bread and the decidedly raw looking hunk of meat, with the small wood cup of water, look like a meal fit for kings.

But something was odd about the Death Eater. He couldn't see the face, with the silver mask, of course, but the slumped posture, the shuffling walk, the careful steps...they all screamed of wariness and suppressed fear. That's strange, since Lucienne said she'd locked my aura up...what reason would this Death Eater have to be afraid of me?

Then, he raised his eyes for a brief second, and Harry's green eyes met a pair of watery, gray ones. All hunger was forgotten in favor of a vicious surge of rage that swept through him, heating his skin and making him remember that feeling, that satisfaction, begging to be achieved, with only a simple thought. Release us. Harry briefly imagined it saying.

"Peter...Pettigrew." Harry slowly let out, in a low voice that came from deep in his chest, thick with emotion.

The traitor flinched slightly. Harry felt his lips twitch at the corners, the first time he'd smiled in a good many hours.

"What's wrong, Peter? Can't even look me in the eye?" Harry asked softly. "Pitiful. You fucking coward." His tone was absolutely flat.

The use of his birth name sent a small tremor through Wormtail. Harry capitalized on that, and decided to explore it. He flexed his hand experimentally, feeling rather than seeing it start to hum with energy, feel those sparks aching to ignite.

"I've got to ask you, Peter-" Another twitch, as he lowered the tray to the floor. "-what exactly was going through your tiny little brain to make you believe that your own pathetic life was worth more than James Potter's? Than Lily Potter's? Than mine?"

Silence. "I'm waiting, Peter."

"...It wasn't-...shut up." He finally mumbled, pausing over the tray, not yet rising to leave.

He had his attention. Harry let out a small, weary laugh. "Ha. Shut up? What kind of comeback was that? Some Maruader you are. Oh, wait-" Harry broke off. He watched in furious amusement as Wormtail's fist clenched until his knuckles were white. "-you aren't one, anymore, are you? 'Messer Wormtail'." Harry finished mockingly.

"Shut up! Shut the hell up, I never said that!" The man shrilled angrily.

"Said what! That you're a backstabbing little shit of a best friend? Because you really ought-!"

"I never said..." Wormtail took a slow breath. "I never said my life was worth more than theirs. Than yours...or hers." The last part was a mumble Harry barely picked up on.

Several things clicked at once, like pieces falling into place. Harry's face contorted into a rictus snarl, and those imaginary voices rose again. Release us. They begged. Use us!

"You sick fuck." Harry could barely get the words out. "So, besides being a fucking turncoat, you were a lecher, too? She was married, you twisted son of a bitch! Happily married!" This seemed to anger the Death Eater more, as he swung his head like a man trying to shake memories away.

"Shut up! It doesn't matter. It didn't matter. He promised! He lied!" Wormtail moaned lowly. "It was always him. Always. James Potter. Always had everything he ever wanted. Always!"

This sounded important. Harry licked his lips, cracked and dry as they were. His eyes flickered to that cup of water. "Who promised? Promised what? Tell me." Harry ordered.

"The Dark Lord. He said. If I told him, he'd let me have her. Make her love me. For real, don't you see!" The gray eyes were desperate behind the mask. "I could have her! For once, I could have what I wanted!"

Total and utter revulsion replaced his anger, for one brief second.

"She was always...always, the one. Always, the kindest. Never looked down on me. Never left me out, like they did. And beautiful...so beautiful." Peter crooned brokenly.

The anger built itself back up slowly, like a pyre rising higher and higher.

"But it was him! Always him!" Wormtail hissed. "Always fucking James Potter!"

"You can't manufacture love, you idiot. You know that." Harry voice was quiet, but his body shook with compressed fury. "You couldn't have possibly believed that anyone, even Voldemort, would be able to. Even a pathetic little nothing like you should have known that he would probably either betray you, or just dope her up with love potions."

"No! No! The Lord...The Dark Lord...he could do things!" Peter whispered fearfully. " Great things...Amazing things! He would have let me have her, if she hadn't fought back! He said so! He promised!"

"Open your eyes, Peter!" Harry snapped. "He was just using you! He was using all of you!"

"NO! I am...I am...his most faithful servant. He said that. I helped him live, helped him survive! I am his most faithful, and I shall be rewarded handsomely when the Dark Lord finally triumphs! Beyond my wildest dreams!" Those watery gray eyes were desperate. "He promised us!"

Harry curled his legs up and let his arms hang loose. "Look into my eyes and tell me believe that. You owe me that much. You owe me that." Harry snarled.

A strange shudder seemed to wrack Wormtail's body, before he hesitantly took a few steps closer, and removed his mask. His face hadn't changed much, still paunchy with a great deal of steel grey stubble starting to grow.

"I believe-!" He began, but got cut off, as Harry struck out with both legs, an angry yell falling from his lips, desperation and fury fueling his blow.

Before Wormtail could do anything but let out a brief cry of pain, Harry struck out again, sending a rubber soled sneaker straight into the man's groin.

The traitor's knees buckled without a sound. Harry locked his legs around the man's neck, and pulled him closer as the man instinctively curled into a ball, cradling his damaged twig and berries.

Harry finally pulled him close enough to grab with his hands, at which point he lowered his head to Peter's ears as the man groaned in pain.

"The lowest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers and turncoats, Peter. I hope you like to fucking burn!" Harry snarled, placing both palms on Peter's face and releasing.

He pushed his revulsion, his anger, and all of his sorrows into those two red flames that appeared, lighting and his palms like fireworks, and watched in satisfaction as they spread to cover his entire palms. Peter's screams as his flesh melted were rather annoying, however, which Harry remedied by placing one of his burning hands on Peter's throat.

After a few seconds, the screams retreated to rasps, which were then silenced. Peter nearly bucked free several times, but Harry held on for dear life. The smell of cooked flesh filled the room, sickly sweet and rancid all at once.

Finally, Peter's convulsions ceased, just as the door opened and Death Eaters began rushing in, wands drawn. Harry could care less, as he let Peter's body slump to the side, to inspect his hands. He could have burned them off for all he cared, because it had felt just so fucking good, but he figured he should at least assess the damage.

And as he watched strange, shiny black flesh recede from his palms and fingers, leaving smooth, unblemished pink skin in their wake, Harry raised his eyebrows and spoke.

"That's interesting." Was all he got out before several Stunners slammed into him at once.

Dumbledore smoothed his robes calmly as he sat down in the well cushioned chair. He had hoped, dreamed that this day would never have to come, but the reality was all too stark.

A trade. The prophecy for Harry's life. One life for possibly thousands, once Tom's knowledge of the prophecy was complete.

A deal with the devil. Dumbledore knew very well that the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and was sure that his stubborn insistence on placing the boy's happiness before the boy himself, preferring to keep the boy ignorant and happy rather than aware and possibly terrified, had lead to the place he was now at.

Which, incidentally, was across a table from the darkest wizard in history. Tom Marvalo Riddle. His narrow, crimson eyes bored into him across the distance.

He had taken all the necessary precautions, true. Both leaders of the conflict had just moments before sworn Unbreakable Oaths to uphold their ends of the bargain. Dumbledore would provide the prophecy. Voldemort would return Harry, alive and intact. And they would be granted safe passage out of the Manor.

Of course, this still left much room for argument and bargaining.

"I shall bring in the boy once you show me you possess the prophecy." Tom drawled.

"I will reveal the location of the prophecy once you have brought Harry in." Dumbledore returned simply. There was a pause of silence.

It was a delicate negotiation, to be sure. Tom would certainly love nothing more than to find some loophole to wriggle through.

However, in this first negotiation, Dumbledore held the high ground. He knew Harry was on the grounds somewhere, while Tom could not knew whether the prophecy was on Dumbledore or merely in a secret location.

This fact was realized in seconds. Tom crooked a finger behind him, and the single Death Eater there stiffened slightly. "Bring in the boy." He ordered.

The servant grasped the handle and quickly yanked it open. Two Death Eaters already waited, and hoisted up by the arms in between them, was Harry, unconscious.

The first thing Dumbledore noticed was that he seemed unharmed, if a bit pale. The old wizard let out a soft breath he did not know he had been holding.

The second thing he noticed was that Harry still was in possession of both of his eyes.

The Headmaster's eyes widened, before he quickly reached inside his robes and pulled out the 'eyeball', before concentrating briefly.

It quickly turned gray and hard, before all that was left in his palm was a smooth, flat stone. Tom watched with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"A sufficient motivator, wouldn't you say, Dumbledore?" He jeered. "Now, the prophecy."

How crude. Dumbledore pursed his lips. But it had worked. He had been so panicked, so desperate to ensure Harry's safety, that he had missed a simple Transfiguration, even minor as it was. Tom always had had a rather morbid sense of humor, even back in his school days...

The legendary wizard reached one wizened hand into his robes, and fished out the softly glowing white orb. Tom's eyes seemed locked on the small sphere, hunger shining in his blood-red irises.

Dumbledore arose from the chair at the same time as Riddle. They both crossed the distance of the long table at the same pace, Tom closely followed by the two Death Eater's supporting the sleeping savior's weight.

They both stopped, a good two paces from each other. They gazed into their adversary's eyes, each locking their Occlumency shields tighter than a goblin's wallet, probing with the lightest breezes of Legimency for signs of any cracks or weaknesses. Neither expected one, but neither would take the chance.

Tom moved first, twitching his finger. The two Death Eaters slowly proceeded forward, dragging Harry along as they went.

Dumbledore opened one arm, and took the boy, managing his weight with surprisingly little difficultly for a wizard his age. At the same time, one of the servants broke off, and delicately plucked the orb from the Headmaster's open palm, as if it were made of the most fragile blown glass.

That was it. Dumbledore watched as the Death Eater scurried quickly over to his Master, and deposited the prophecy in his eager hands. The small glass ball disappeared quickly into the folds of his robe.

Another time, perhaps, Dumbledore might have tried an appeal to Tom's humanity, or whatever was left of it. He was a firm believer in second chances, seeing as he was on his at the moment.

But at this moment, he couldn't care less. All that mattered, all that was important, was getting Harry out of here, as soon as possible.

He felt his own magic shift uneasily, as the Unbreakable Vow reasserted it's presence. I Albus Wulfric...Dumbledore...swear...Leave immediately after the transaction is done. The words of his oath rose like a flood in his ears.

He made no effort to fight it, turning immediately and striding to the door at the other end of the room, and pulling it open.

Sirius and Remus were waiting anxiously. Both seem to sag in relief as they saw the unconscious, but alive boy in his arms. Sirius took the boy from the Headmaster as he took the once-eyeball from his inner breast pocket, and held it out flat on his palm.

"Portus." He intoned hoarsely, linking it back to his office in Hogwarts with a brief thought.

Both men put their hands on the stone. Sirius maneuvered Harry's limp appendage so it was touching as well.

Dumbledore waited, waited, and felt the anti-Portkey wards flicker down for a brief moment, and-!

"Portus Activatus."

There was a brief tug, and they were gone.

Voldemort hastily swept open the door to the Riddle Library, which he had renovated into a private study over his stay.

"LEAVE!" He snarled in Parceltongue at the one Death Eater guarding the door. The wizard, sensing the intent if not understanding the words, made a most undignified retreat, fleeing down the hallway.

A few other Death Eaters had followed him in his hasty stride through the halls of the manor, out of curiosity. They milled anxiously in the hallway behind him.

"No one will enter here!" He snarled. "Any who disturb me will perish." He growled lowly, before slamming the door shut.

In the process of minutes, Tom barricaded the room with silencing wards, proximity alerts and several nasty traps that would cause rather terminal cases of death to any who tripped them.

Satisfied for the moment, he swept all the papers from his large, mahogany table. Thinking again briefly, he summoned several pieces of parchment and inked quills off the floor, before charming all the quills to record everything said within earshot.

Then, he gently, ever so gently, set the orb down upon the table, and gave it a tap with his wand.

A blue light sent shadows skittering down the walls of the room as a spectral image of a woman arose, and spoke in a high, dark tone. The quills instantly leapt to writing.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."

Voldemort's triumphant, high pitched cackles echoed hauntingly off the walls of the study.

Several hours later, he found Bella, Luicus and several other members of his Inner Circle, waiting dutifully outside the door of the library.

They all hesitated as he closed the door softly behind him, a wide smirk tugging at his bloodless lips.

"Gather our forces." He ordered, one hand feeling the orb tucked safely in his robes. "We're relocating."

Harry woke up in the Hospital Wing. He didn't jump awake or get thrown awake, just simply opened his eyes and sat up.

He wasn't especially startled by the Headmaster already waiting at his bedside, either. For some reason, everything seemed rather surreal.

"You've got quite a bit of explaining to do, my boy, so I think it would be best you start at the beginning." Dumbledore stated mildly, handing him a silver goblet filled with cold water, which he drained gratefully.

Is he angry? Harry wondered. Did it really matter, now, though? He took a deep breath, his mind running through the events of the past few days. And he made a choice.

"...Well, Professor, it started like this..."

Harry shifted his feet nervously in the small, musty shop, as Ollivander drifted back towards the shelves, replacing the wand that had so recently backfired violently the second Harry touched it.

He hadn't liked lying to Dumbledore. After what the man had gone through, giving up something he had spent the better part of Harry's life protecting, it felt like he should deserve the truth.

But that woman's, that Veela'sóLucienne'sówords kept drifting back to him. How the incubi had been destroyedóhunted downósimply by insecure men who could not stand the fact that they felt inferior. How governments and histories around the world had blotted out their existence. Normally he would have dismissed it as a conspiracy theory, but he himself was living proof.

So, Harry had, on an impulse, blotted out the parts of the story that hinted at his new transformation. Also, the conversation he had had with the mysterious Veela.

Everything else, he had stubbornly kept, refusing to deceive the grandfatherly old wizard any more than he had to.

He had felt like shit when all that disappointment had filled Dumbledore's eyes, as he told him how he had killed the Death Eater with Unforgivable Killing Curse (Which he hastily edited to be Wormtail; He didn't think that Dumbledore would buy him killing the traitor with his bare hands).

Then, he felt like shit that had been thoroughly pissed upon when Dumbledore, instead of getting angry or giving him a stern lecture, merely donned a sad smile, and said,-

"It wasn't your fault, Harry."

Somehow, that was worse than any disapproving lecture he could have given him. Far worse.

"You always were a tricky customer, , doubly so now." Ollivander murmured, seemingly delighted by this. "Always harder, I find, to replace a wand then to get your first one. Try this one, siren hair with ebony, ten inches, rather graceful, I must say. A bit of a rivalry for Charms and Transfiguration. You are sure yours is lost?" He asked, seeming a bit hopeful.

"Absolutely." Voldemort had probably snapped it himself, and laughed while doing it. Harry picked up the black wand, gave it a wave, and rolled his eyes as it gave off a brief, off key note, like a voice cracking when going a tad too high, before it was quickly snatched away.

"A shame. A good wand, that was. One of a kind...well, nearly one of a kind." Ollivander sighed wistfully, tugging out another short case. He seemed to be going farther and farther back, and the combinations had started to get obscurer and obscurer as they went.

"Mm." Harry answered boredly, his eyes roaming the walls for anything interesting to look at. There were only more cases, and boxes.

Suddenly, a bit of memory drifted back to him. "Er, Mr. Ollivander, sir?" He called out hesitantly. The old man had seemingly disappeared.

Suddenly, like a ghost, he came from around another corner, another case held open, a chocolate brown wand held in a case.

"Hmm...yes? Try this one now, cockatrice tail feathers, rather vicious one too, if I remember...12 inches and oak. Straight and stiff, good for advanced spells and serious business." The old wand-maker seemed to hardly be listening as he quickly took back the wand, after Harry had barely lifted it from the case.

"Could...I try to guess one?" Harry asked.

"Guess? Why, Mr. Potter, I never guess." Ollivander seemed almost offended. "But I suppose it couldn't hurt, seeing as you've gone through half of my store already. Guess away."

"Maybe...a Veela hair?" Harry did his best to sound nonchalant. He saw something light up in Ollivander's eyes, and he quickly covered his tracks. "Or, er...a-" He halted, trying to think up other wand cores they hadn't tried yet. "Chimaera heartstring?" He quickly blurted, remembering Krum's.

"No, no, of course, let us go with your first suggestion. Veela hair." The old man seemed positively ecstatic. "Normally, too temperamental by far, but we're dealing with a rather temperamental customer, aren't we? Yes, yes..." He resumed his mutterings to himself as he scurried back into the racks.

Harry, unsure whether to be affronted at that last comment or not, merely waited silently, toying with the edge of his robe sleeve, until Ollivander came back with a quartet of rather dusty looking wand cases.

"A rather old shipment, I remember, from back when Alexia and I were still on speaking terms. Try this one, Veela hair, mahogany, ten inches, stout, good for-" He didn't even finish his description before snatching it out of Harry's hand, as the wand emitted a rather animalistic growl and send a arm numbing shock up Harry's arm. "No, no, must have been in a rather foul temper when she plucked that one..." Ollivander offered jokingly.

Harry pushed on a polite smile, busy as he was trying to rub feeling back into his arm, wondering who the hell Alexia was. Ollivander plucked off another casing, and offered a second wand to Harry.

"Veela hair, nine inches, sandalwood, a bit-" He cut off as Harry gasped painfully, his whole right side seizing up. "No?"

Mutely, Harry shook his head. It felt rather like something was trying to rip his arm off. Ollivander took it out of his hands, and the sensation lessened to a dull twinge. Harry watched the third wand warily as it appeared.

"Veela hair, eight and a half inches, cedar. Flexible enough. Good for strong Defense work." Ollivander raised the case closer as Harry shied away slightly. "Come now, Mr. Potter, it won't bite you. Probably."

Very reassuring. Harry thought sarcastically, as he gingerly lifted it from the case. Nothing happened. There was no sensation, nothing like the warm acceptance he felt from his phoenix-feather wand. He gave it a few waves. There was no reaction.

"Hmm." Was all Ollivander said, before Harry found the wand tugged out of his hand and replaced in it's case.

Ollivander pushed the three boxes to the side and revealed the last wand, a dark, dark brown one, almost but not quite black.

"Veela hair, thirteen inches, cherry. Swishy. Tricky, but dependable if you've got a sure hand for it." Ollivander raised the case and offered it forward.

Harry braced himself, and picked it up.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Ollivander sighed.

"Well, I suppose it was just a guess. Funny, though, I was sure-"

Something poked Harry in the chest, hard enough to drive him back a step. Then, he felt a slap on his arm. "Hey!" He exclaimed, a bit annoyed.

It didn't stop. A push on the arm, a flick on the forehead, a dig in his side. Then, he yelped and jumped forward. Did this wand...just...pinch my ass? He thought incredulously.

"It seems to be a bit playful." Ollivander offered, chuckling slightly in mirth.

Harry felt an invisible hand grab a strong hold of his ear, and decided that was enough. He concentrated, and pushed into the wand.

The wand responded by quieting for a moment, before letting a warm sensation flow through his body, and a conflagration of sea green sparks fizz out of the end of the wand.

Not as intense as when he took his first wand, but Harry supposed it would suffice.

Ollivander let out a small exclamation of satisfaction as Harry replaced the wand in the case. "Well, Mr. Potter, it seems your guess was correct. A good intuition, or perhaps greater luck. Perhaps you might wish to follow the path of wand-maker when you grow up, hmm?"

Harry fought to keep the horror off of his face. Cooped up in a dusty old shop like this one for the rest of his life? He must've failed somehow, as the old wizard walked over to his register chuckling.

"That will be eleven Galleons and seven Sickles, Mr. Potter." Harry nodded, as he took the wand and tucked it in his back pocket to start digging in his Bottomless Bag.

Ollivander noticed this. "Here you are." Harry stated, holding out a handful of gold and silver.

"Not a very safe place to be putting that, nor a respectful one. You could blow your buttocks off." Ollivander quipped, taking the money and dividing it somewhere under the counter.

Respectful? Harry quickly extricated the wand and stuck it in one of his front pockets. "Er-...is this right?" He queried.

Ollivander spared him an amused glance. "Now you're at risk of losing something even more important." That certainly got it out of his pocket fast enough, making the old wand-maker chortle. "No, what I was going to suggest, was buying a holster for that."

That notion took Harry by surprise. The more he thought about it, however, the more sensible it seemed. He'd always just stuck it wherever wasn't filled up.

"Fair enough." Harry reasoned. "Where do I get one?"

Ollivander merely withdrew his wand and tapped a section beneath the counter. There was a rattling sound, before a board slid up from the bottom, with several holsters hanging from racks.

Harry eyed them speculatively. They all looked mostly the same, other than the odd gilding or gold engraving.

"They're all the standards, of course. Shoulder-holsters, hip-holsters." Ollivander rambled, pointing to two that Harry honestly couldn't tell the difference between. "Ankle-holsters for the eccentric." Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Ollivander leaned in, almost conspiratorially. "Personally, I think that they're all piffle. A wand isn't a sword, or a Muggle gun, or a knife. It's a finely and expertly crafted tool of wizardry, a conductor's stick of the arcane forces, a-"

"What do you suggest, then?" Harry cut in hastily, sensing that the old wizard would go on about this topic as long as he was allowed to.

Ollivander plucked one of the holsters off of the pegged rack, one made of simple black leather with a few more straps than usual. "A wrist holster. Simple, effective, practical, easy to get to in a pinch. This one has the standard Anti-Summoning charms, of course."

"I'll take it." Harry decided, whatever cost it may be.

"A wise choice, Mr. Potter. That will be five Galleons, a Sickle, and six Knuts."

Harry quickly divvied it up, before placing the holster in his front pocket and leaving.

Ollivander listened to the bells on his door finally jingle to a halt, before letting a small smirk cross his features, as he began tidying up the many boxes he had thrown about.

"Take that, Alexia!...'No, no, Ollivander, a Veela hair wand only chooses girls with Veela blood!'" Ollivander's voice was in a mocking high pitched lilt as he pushed a box back into order. "That will teach her...stuck up French trollop...mock my wands, will you? Of course when hers are all...prettied up...all that carving and frillery...ugh!" Ollivander muttered in disgust.

He was soon lost in the world of his craft once more.

"Are you quite done?" Snape drawled, leaning against the outside of the wand shop. "Because, I assure you, I have much better things to do than to baby-sit you."

Normally, Harry would have had to swallow resentment or an angry retort. Now...? He was just slightly annoyed. It all seemed rather trivial.

"Really? Like what?" Harry returned airily.

For a moment, Snape seemed rather disappointed at Harry's lack of reaction. "I won't bother your simple little head or waste my breath. Let us simply end this trip as soon as possible." He muttered, retrieving the return Portkey, an eagle feathered quill, from his robes.

Finally, something we can agree on. Harry pinched one end of the feather between his fingertips as he felt the familiar tugging at his navel, before he was whisked away.

He landed hard in a corridor he recognized as where the eerie messages were painted in blood on the walls by Ginny Weasley. He stumbled slightly, trying to regain his balance, as Snape straightened his robes imperiously.

"When you are finished imitating a drunk-" Snape's perpetual sneer lengthened. "You may visit the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey wishes to confirm your health once more before you may go back to needlessly wasting our time."

With that, Snape swept away in the direction of the dungeons, his robes billowing out behind him. Harry's lips twisted from a grimace to a scowl, before turning to stump off towards the Hospital Wing.

It didn't take long to get there. Harry stopped once to greet Nearly Headless Nick, and found the whole trip to be a bit disconcerting. The completely empty halls seemed almost too-quiet, missing the general racket and clatter he had become accustomed to.

But at the same time, the silence was...tranquil, in a way. There was no stress, no confusion, no frenzied rushing to his next class. No elbows jabbing or shoving. Just him, and a whole castle, and wherever he wanted to go in it.

It was comforting.

It was lonely.

Harry pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing. "Do we really have to do this ag-oh." He finished rather dumbly, in his opinion.

After all, he hadn't expected to find Fleur Delacour here, after all. She was wearing a conservative gray dress with a high neck and a white smock over it, almost completely identical to what Madam Pomfrey wore, missing only the white cap.

She seemed as surprised as him, however.

"I remember you. Ze leetle boy. From ze Tournament." She offered.

"Yeah, I remember you too. Er..." He searched for something to say. "How's your little sister?" He recalled the little girl he had pulled from the lake very dimly.

"She is well."

An uncomfortable silence stretched, as Harry lingered by the door. He was the first to break it.

"So, what are you doing here?" Harry asked, wincing at the slightly accusatory sound to the words.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off before she began. "I-"

"There you are!" Harry started slightly as he found Madam Pomfrey striding forward from the door at the far end of the Hospital Wing. "Well, Mr. Potter, it seems you've already met my apprentice." There was an almost proud air to her words. "This is Fleur Delacour. She will be staying here at Hogwarts for the year, and perhaps the next. Come now, we need to run a few more tests, just to be safe. Come, come!" She ushered him quickly.

As Harry passed her, the Medi-Witch glanced at the blonde witch. "Fleur, dear, we haven't quite enough Skele-Grow, and we haven't even started on the Bruise-Be-Gone yet. Get started on that, will you?"

Harry heard the ruffling of skirts and her dutiful voice last as he closed the door behind him. "Of courze, Madam."

Harry shrugged off his robe and folded it as he waited for Madam Pomfrey to come back with the assortment of tests and bitter tasting potions she wanted him to gulp down.

Well, I wasn't expecting that.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry wandered a lot.

The empty halls were endless, and Harry found himself walking aimlessly with no real direction. Just walking, for the sake of walking.

No one stopped him. Sure, Dumbledore had told him where the kitchens were, so he knew to tickle the pear when he got hungry. But the halls were empty, except for the occasional yowl of Mrs. Norris or grumblings of Filch, which generally made Harry turn the other way.

The portraits seemed to take a liking to him. They would help him when he got a little lost, guide him back from abandoned corridors full of empty, musty classrooms. But soon enough, he didn't even need them for that.

He had found his favorite place by far to be the Astronomy Tower. The silence, the height, the view of the lake, where he had a birds-eye view of the curling tentacles of the giant squid, the dark figures darting at the edges of the Forbidden Forest, and the hulking form of Hagrid as he walked the grounds.

Bored as he was, he entertained speculation of what his friends would do if they were here with him.

Ron would probably go the kitchens and stuff himself, and then fly himself sick after borrowing my Firebolt. That, or moan about wasting the summer back at school. Harry thought, amused. An owl hooted in the distance, bringing attention to how late in the day it was. The sun was setting a bleeding red cast to the sky, making the lake seem as if it's murky surface were aflame. Hermione...ha! She'd probably barricade herself in the library and read herself to death. Then, she'd come back as a ghost and try to pester me into doing the same.

This thought brought on a feeling of restlessness, which made him shift fitfully, before yanking open the trapdoor to the stairs and heading down.

He wanted...needed, to do something. Something productive, to help him get stronger. But the very thought of staying cooped up in a library for hours on end made his skin itch in irritation.

And the gap. The huge gap in power between him and Voldemort, it terrified him. Voldemort had been a perfect student, excelling at everything he did, and besides that had had fifty years to hone and improve himself! Harry himself was nothing special; He did average in most classes, a bit better in DADA, and had basically been drifting through the years, not really thinking much of classes except getting through them, and picking the easy ones, like Divination, so they could work less.

He couldn't even start to fathom how long it would take to catch up!

What he wanted, what he needed, were shortcuts, bonuses, advantages. He needed someway to jump his power a few leaps ahead.

But that wouldn't be common knowledge. Harry mused, deciding to follow this train of thought. Or else everyone would be that strong. It would have to be hidden, secret...

Harry's eyes widened.

...restricted...

This could work!

"What do you mean I can't go in the Restricted Section!"

Or not.

"Do not raise your voice to me, young man!" Madam Pince snapped. She was currently in the process of reorganizing the books, pulling them all off the shelves and then back in order. It would likely take a very long time, which only raised Harry's ire as she pulled a final book off, and pushed her cart to another row. "Children these days, no respect for their elders..." She muttered.

Harry scowled. Her tone reminded him of Petunia. "But I need to go in there. It's important!"

"Then I suggest you go attempt to get one from one of the teachers." Her tone was sickly sweet and patronizing, making Harry's pulse heat alarmingly. "Which, incidentally, you will fail at. Students are not allowed books from there for anything other than academic reasons, which you rather lack, and will continue to lack for the next five or so weeks."

"Why not? Why can't I just go in?" Harry hated the whining tone in his voice, but he was angry, damn it! "It's not like I'm bothering you any!"

"There are very Dark and dangerous things in there, Mr. Potter." She told him in a low, severe tone. "Most especially too dangerous for little boys." The last part was a scathing hiss.

Harry growled in frustration and stomped out of the Library, sensing that the woman would not be shaken.

Dumbledore looked up as the door to his office burst open, admitting a very vexed looking Harry Potter. Perhaps Tittering Truffles was too obvious a password...He mused, as Harry ascended the short stairs and stood in front of the ancient wizard's desk. "How may I assist you, my boy?"

"Professor, I need your help. I need to get into the Restricted Section, but Madam Pince won't let me. She will if you give me permission, right?" The boy blurted out in one breath.

The Headmaster calmly folded his spectacles and nudged the new student list aside. "And why, may I ask, do you find yourself in such urgent need of such forbidden fruits of knowledge, Harry?" He inquired calmly.

Harry briefly surveyed his surroundings, before pulling up one of the hardwood chairs. "Isn't it obvious, Professor? I need strength. I need power." The boy glanced briefly at the bookcases that lined both walls.

A small chill traveled down Dumbledore's spine. "Power, you say?"

Harry nodded firmly. "Yeah. Voldemort's back, Professor, we both know it. He's going to be coming after me. I need some way to get stronger, fast. Ordinary school stuff isn't going to cut it. I need things he's weak against, shortcuts to power he hasn't taken or doesn't know about. Something to help me get an edge."

Dumbledore struggled to keep his voice level as he responded. "You seem to be quite driven, my boy, especially after such a traumatic experience. Perhaps you should enjoy the summer and apply this newfound vigor to your studies. I am sure that you will do much-"

"I don't have time for that!" Harry interrupted sharply.

Dumbledore stilled the sharp retort on his tongue, and quelled the uneasiness in his stomach. He paused as he contemplated his next question.

"My boy-" He began gently. "Where was this sudden skepticism in our education sprung from? You've never been doubtful of our teachings before."

Harry chewed on his tongue as he tried to sort through his own feelings on the subject, and quickly got to the core of it.

"It's too...childish." Dumbledore's eyebrows rose.

"Whatever do you mean, Harry?"

"Everything!" Harry threw up his hands. "You have us doing essays on obscure potions we'll almost never need, learning about creatures we'll probably never meet, and worst, learning spells that are weak and totally useless! This education system is utter shit!"

The Headmaster thought about reprimanding Harry on his language, but sensed that he had struck a deep vein of hidden feeling. He decided to dig a little deeper.

"That's an interesting point of view, my boy." The ancient wizard offered mildly. "What would you do, if you could change it?"

The question struck Harry off guard, stopping him mid-roll. He leaned back in his seat, and mulled over it thoughtfully.

"I'd...make it more sensible. Say, we could start looking at career options earlier, and mould more of our classes around them. Add some more useful classes, too, like business management, or, um, a foreign language, like German or French or Spanish." Harry crossed his arms across his chest. "And have more important and useful spells available. I really doubt that Jelly-Legs or Bat-Bogey hexes are that useful in a real fight, since one Finite Incantem can get rid of just about any of the spells we're taught."

The old wizard had been sitting quietly during this whole monologue. The tips of his lips quirked up in the barest of smiles.

"You're right, and wrong."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"The magical education system is flawed, but not entirely so. You must understand, Harry, Britain has been a non-conformist nation for so long, it resists almost any changes of tradition or methods. After all, if our current system has carried us nearly a millennium on top of the magical world, through Dark Lords and all manner of foulness, why tinker with it and risk losing something important?"

"But the schooling, Professor; shouldn't we concentrate on new areas if this has been the same so long? New fields and professions are bound to have opened up, ignoring them out of hand would put us way behind and be wasting advantages that could be really beneficial!" Harry protested.

Good to see a young mind who's foresight is as sharp as his normal. "You are right, Harry, understand that you are right. It is complete ignorance and prejudice to reject new ideas simply out of fear. But we have survived so far, what, or who, rather, is to say we will not survive further?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and waited for the obvious conclusion.

"Voldemort...He had you at his mercy." Harry replied slowly.

"Correct. It was that time, nearly fifteen years ago, that cemented our beliefs and fears. Imagine, Harry, all of your power rendered inert, by a monster you yourself had created. Tom Riddle is a monster, not a demon, Harry. You must always remember. Demons are born, but monsters are made."

"We...made Voldemort?" came the slow reply.

"Of course we did. Blood purity-activists still existed before his rise to power, my boy. Tom was manipulated, molded, poisoned by those beliefs. It was from our prejudice that the Dark Lord Voldemort was born, from the derisive views of half-bloods and muggleborns that we did not bother to change or limit, confident and secure in our power as we were." Dumbledore sighed and folded his hands. "Just think, Harry, what Tom's power and genius could have done if used for the people and our dreams of an equal magical world, instead of for selfish goals and bitter revenge."

Harry clenched his teeth together and stared hard at the edge of Dumbledore's desk. It was a hard concept to wrap his mind around, being so used to naturally hating Voldemort, even in his thoughts.

"A hard thing to imagine, yes?" It didn't take Legimency to know exactly what the boy was thinking.

"Yeah..." Harry shifted in his chair. "Listen, Professor, if the system is as depraved as I think it is, doesn't it make even more sense to let me into the Restricted Section?"

The Headmaster smiled. "I said our educational traditions were backwards, not the material itself, Harry. Do you know why we force our young students to learn such frivolous and nearly-harmless spells?"

"No." Harry answered honestly. "With all due respect, sir, it seems pointless."

"But it is not, my boy, it is not. Those spells teach you methods, styles of spell weaving and casting, and help you build your power and sharpen your focus. And Harry, answer me this-" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement. "-do you honestly think we would leave dangerous and life-threatening curses in the hands of school-children?"

Harry's cheeks flushed as he looked down, ashamed. "I guess not." He admitted.

"And on one of your other points, this is the year you will be receiving your interviews with your Heads of Houses to determine what your choices are and what you will be looking at as a possible career." Dumbledore head cocked slightly in curiosity. "Have you considered any fields in which you might be interested? Something exciting and adventurous, I'm sure." He joked.

Harry's mouth opened to affirm his statement, and he stopped. "Actually, no." He answered.

The old wizard was mildly surprised. "Whyever not, Harry? Some say life is not about arriving neatly and quietly into the grave, but skidding in sideways, totally knackered, shouting, 'Great Scott, what a ride!'. It certainly seems like something that would be applicable to you, if you do not mind me saying."

"No, it's all right, it's just..." Harry trailed off, thinking of the airport bathroom, of the cold feeling that accompanied the dreaded curse flying from his lips, that shaking terror and the frayed nerves as he ran for what he thought was his life. "I think I've had enough excitement for one life, sir. I would probably want to do something that makes a difference, but doesn't need me risking my life left and right."

"A wise sentiment, my boy." Dumbledore intoned somberly.

Harry got up, and was about to leave, but stopped. "Sir, I still think I need more advanced material." He repeated, sitting right back down in his seat.

"I believe we just had this discussion, Harry. Is it not I who is supposed to have memory problems, not you?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"No, I understand about keeping the more dangerous and life-threatening magic out of the hands of the regular students...but with all due respect, Professor, I'm not a regular student." Harry replied seriously, staring straight at Dumbledore's clear blue eyes.

A sudden twinge made him curve his gaze sharply, as the older wizard responded.

"Take care. Arrogance is unbefitting one as young as yourself, my boy." Harry had to force himself not to feel guilty at the slightly chiding and accusatory tone.

"It's not arrogance, Headmaster. Exactly how many other students have Voldemort after them?" A slightly tone of anger crept into his voice. "Name them, and I'll leave."

Dumbledore stared silently forward, but Harry got the feeling he wasn't looking at him, even though he was directly in front of him.

It seemed as though minutes crawled by as the Headmaster silently contemplated. Harry shifted restlessly in the plush red armchair.

"...Very well. But-!"

His efforts to stop Harry's outburst were in vain. He practically leapt out of his armchair. "Really!" He could not keep the eagerness out of his voice.

"Contain yourself!" Dumbledore said sharply, and Harry found himself scrambling back into his chair.

Is he...angry at me? Harry thought incredulously. He watched nervously as the old wizard kneaded his temples in irritation.

"You must understand, Harry, this goes against what I've been trying to do for nearly the past fifteen years. Do you truly have no wish to enjoy the chance I have given you to live out your childhood?" It was a final plea, and it twisted Harry up inside.

"Sir...I don't think there ever was a chance in the first place." Harry replied quietly. He saw the old man physically recoil as if slapped, and looked down as he felt guilt gnaw at his insides.

When Dumbledore responded, his voice was thick. "Very well then, my boy. I suggest you start in Transfiguration or Charms, your parents always had talent in those areas. Look up...look up the Czerbach Theorum for Transfiguration, or Malcolm Underhill for Charms. I believe you have some studying to do."

It was a dismissal, and Harry took it as such. He was stopped with his hand on the door by Dumbledore's sad voice.

"Remember, Harry, there is always one thing that you have, that Voldemort never will."

Love. Harry mentally finished, gritting his teeth as he yanked open the door and headed for the Gryffindor dormitory, plagued by emotions. He would study in the morning. Right now, he just needed peace.

Unfortunately, he would not get it that night.

The night was cool, and the mist was thick enough to cut with a knife. The tall woods around him were dark and empty, as no animals would dare stray from their holes when he stalked their home. They did not know him, but they knew his scent, and anything other than utter submission before a Greater Beast such as himself would be more than complete folly. It would be asking for death.

The late autumn leaves crunched under his expensive boots. They were new and he felt a twinge of annoyance every time they creaked. But he would not trade them for anything, no. Appearances were very important, especially in such affairs as his.

The trees whistled as a chilly breeze blew through them, and he shivered, before he conjured a crimson blaze in one hand, warming him immediately and lighting a path. The challenge had been made and met, and now it was only a matter of time.

The long trip here always vexed him, but he knew perfectly well the necessity. They could have any fool believer stumbling upon the holy grounds, now could they?

The woods parted to reveal a stone arch. Finally. He was getting tired of his brothers' and sisters' ceaseless paranoia. Every time, it took longer for those damned protections of those thrice damned priests of theirs to let him through. Of course, he supposed it was a good thing they were such idiots or he never would have made it even this far...

The forest ground slowly gave way to well-set stone, and finely crafted columns of stone on each side of his. The tiles that he walked depicted fine mosaic scenes, of dark places, and of those falling into them. Never to be seen again. His lips curled into a wry grin.

Before, he would have never dared come to this place unannounced. Their...head of the family, his unique power held them in place.

But there was more than one kind of power.

A soft murmur reached his ears, the quiet babble of talk, which grew steadily louder and louder as he approached. The clacking of his boot heels against the stone was a steady beat.

Eventually, the mist began parting, and he extinguished the flame in his hand. No need to appear threatening...yet.

Twelve people sat, before a half moon table split in two of black obsidian and white marble. Six men, six women, all clad in white robes and golden sashes.

All around them, more men and women conversed on stone benches arrayed in a rising fashion around the twelve.

All inhumanly perfect. All inhumanly beautiful. Which was a good thing, since they were far from human.

He was able to catch snatches of their heated conversation as he drew steadily closer. It was quite the clamor, speaking nothing of the state their auras were in, clashing about fitfully as they were.

"The agreement...!"

"...cannot reveal ourse-!"

"...heresy, blasphemy!"

"...they must not..."

"...We are supreme, we will not-!"

He stopped in front of them, idly shuffling his own black and gold regalia, which he had donned in his order to appease his own sense of humor, waiting for the inevitable. Ironically, it was big brother who first noticed him, his head snapping up as one the angry tendrils of his own power brushed against his own carefully thickened aura.

Eventually, they all noticed, their arguments dying down to mere murmurs and then silence. Twelve identical dark glares struck him, and slid off as he idly examined his fingernails.

"You all seem so tense. Is there something wrong?" He mock-innocently. "Shouldn't you greet your long lost brother?"

Only stony silence greeted him. He put on a hurt look.

"Where's all the love gone? I've come a long way, a hug or two would not go amiss. Please?" Oh, he could feel their anger, their hatred. Feel as surely as the blood in his veins. "Or perhaps you've simply forgotten how to offer a proper greeting. No matter, it would be my absolute pleasure to re-instruct you."

He stepped forward, swept his arm over his waist, and bowed dramatically. He felt their anger peak and spill over, like an unwatched pot.

Then he smiled; it did not reach his eyes.

"'Welcome back, Brother Ha-'"

A wretched screaming filled the air, but none of the figures seemed to notice. The man in black's lips continued to move, and one of the men at the table, with a stout grey beard, leapt to his feet, pointed and-

The scene leapt ahead. Lighting flashed.

There was a shout, angry yelling-

A flash of blood, red, so red-

Two red globes, staring back at him.

Harry woke with a shout, jerking to attention amongst his sweat-drenched sheets. He sat there, panting for a few moment, his eyes wide with shock. A dim light was filtering through the window, the sun just starting to rise in the sky.

What...what the hell was that? His mentally screamed.

His attention was drawn to his scar, which, now that he noticed, was throbbing angrily. He reached up, and rubbed it. Finding wetness, he brought his fingers back.

It was blood.

He quickly got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, staring wide-eyed at the lightning bolt carved onto his forehead that was now weeping small amounts of blood.

The first drop reached his eyebrow, and dripped down to his cheek. This shocked him out of his stupor, as he quickly grabbed the hand-cloth and wet it, before washing the blood off of his face, thinking furiously as he rubbed.

Whatever that was, it wasn't Voldemort. Harry was sure of that. Everything about the dream just felt different from the visions he received from the Dark Lord.

For one, it was much clearer. When he had received the vision of Voldemort killing that old Muggle man last summer, it was like he had been watching from a third-person view. This one however...Harry could feel the biting winds through the trees, felt like he was thinking the stranger's own thoughts.

And the end, with that strange way the dream had been...broken, almost. The screaming that wasn't really there, the skipping flashes ahead. Those twin red orbs.

Another small drop of blood dribbled out of his enflamed scar, which he dabbed quickly. The hand-towel was now streaked a fine crimson.

The dream itself had Harry completely befuddled. Where had the stranger-he-been? Holy ground? Protections? Priests?

Harry tried to remember further, but was diverted as a sudden wave of agony hit him straight in his head, a blinding migraine that had him roaring and slapping at his temples it a desperate attempt relieve some of the pressure.

His foot lost it's balance on something slippery, and he went down hard on his arse. He barely caught himself from ramming his head into the tiles, jarring both his elbows to save his cranium.

He lay there, moaning lowly in pain, until it abated and he stopped seeing stars. He licked his lips and found something salty and bitter there, which made him frown as he got back up to his feet. He groaned as he looked in the mirror.

His scar had decided to bleed some more. This time, all the way down his damn face, leaving a long ruby stream that looked quite sinister before he quickly wiped it up. Almost immediately, a few more drops leaked out.

It obviously wasn't stopping on it's own, and Harry was feeling a tad lightheaded, which was not a good sign. He quickly pressed the hand-cloth to his forehead, and threw on some clothes, before departing for the Hospital Wing.

"I told you, I'm fine." Harry groused, as Fleur pressed another dollop of the foul smelling cream to his scar, heedless of the mess it made of her fingers. "Just give me a jar of whatever-that-is-"

"Cutbane." She corrected coolly, ignoring the rest of his statement. Harry winced as she dug her fingers a little harder in.

"Just give me a jar of Cutbane-" He repeated dutifully. "-and let me be on my way. Please?" Harry added hopefully.

Said hopes were crushed when she leveled at him a flat stare, before focusing back on rubbing the Cutbane into his scalp.

Something told him that trying to get up and leave would be a bad idea. It was a vibe that she shared with Madam Pomfrey. Come to think of it, it was probably the reason Fleur was on the Mediwitch's good side.

It had all started when Harry had remembered exactly who Madam Pomfrey reported to, namely, Dumbledore. Since his world-famous curse-scar splattering blood everywhere like no tomorrow would definitely be something that she would mention to him, Harry had paused at the door, deliberating his choices.

For one, he didn't want to worry the old man. He had already stomped all over his trust and shat all over the gift Dumbledore had tried to give him. He didn't want him worrying.

Secondly, he sure as hell didn't want Dumbledore wondering. The scar had never acted up like this, not even when he got visions from Voldemort, the darkest wizard of all time. What if Dumbledore did that Legimency thing and saw his conversation with Lucienne?

He trusted Dumbledore with his life...but would the Headmaster see him the same after knowing what he was? That was the thing that held the deepest suspicion for Harry.

He was standing out there, deliberating whether to go in or not, when Fleur had cornered him outside. She had been coming back from picking up a delivery of medicinal supplies from Snape(apparently the man did serve a purpose other than terrorizing helpless children).

It didn't take her two seconds to notice the blood-soaked rag pressed to his forehead, and less for her to order him in. He refused.

They compromised. Harry didn't want to be seen by Madam Pomfrey, and Fleur refused to let him go without treating him. Which led to where they were now. Her grinding Cutbane(which smelled like a dead, diseased fish with disinfectant dumped all over it) into his forehead in an empty classroom.

Normally, Harry would be thankful of how lucky he was to have caught her when she was carrying that specific medicine, but he was too annoyed at the moment. She's like a mix of Hermione's bossy attitude and Mrs. Weasley's mothering habits, a complete nightmare!

A particularly hard push made him wince. "Are you quite done already?" He snapped testily.

She pursued her lips. "I 'ave prevented you from pazzing out from bloodlozz. A leetle appreziation would not be uncalled for." She huffed angrily, finally ceasing her assault on his forehead.

He met her stare for stare, refusing to back down. After a second, Fleur looked down as she capped the small jar and wiped her hands on her white smock. She pressed the jar into his hand.

"Thees is acceptable for zmall bleed, but you weel need to come to me for anyzing bigger, understand?" She informed him, her tone stern and serious.

Harry pocketed the small jar and nodded. "Yeah." He replied dully. He headed for the door.

"I'm zerious!" She called after him, a bit vexed, and slightly worried.

He waved his hand behind him, dismissing it. He ignored the twist in his gut and the twinge in his scar as he did.

Instead of going to the Library, however, Harry went back to his room. The pounding headache he still had was enough to ward off any notions of hours with his nose in a book.

He flopped onto his bed, and laced his fingers behind his head.

After a few seconds, he got restless, and brought out one hand to inspect. He turned it over, inspecting it. Harry clenched it into a fist.

Then, he placed the tip of his middle finger against his thumb, and snapped his finger.

Nothing happened. With a flicker of irritation, he tried again.

A tiny tendril of smoke curled up from his fingers. Harry narrowed his eyes in concentration, and snapped harder.

That small, thumb sized firelight of crimson lit up once more, as if projected from an invisible lighter. Harry stared at it, mesmerized.

It was then when he noticed something else. His thumb was black.

Only the top, really, directly under the small light, there was a patch of shiny black skin, the light from the flame reflecting off of it as if it were finely burnished copper.

He experimented. Harry sucked in a breath and fed the flame, and watched as the black skin spread to cover his entire digit, protecting it from the intense heat of the fire that was now the size of a baby's fist, letting only a trickle of warmth seep through.

He spread his palm, turning it over to see the shiny black over-skin covering the back of his thumb too. Harry watched as the crimson flame actually licked at his thumb, which he barely felt save a slight increase in warmth.

Then he decided to cut loose. Theatrically, he clenched his fist and pumped in one motion.

"Hah!" He expelled the shout like he had seen those old kung-fu masters in Dudley's favorite movies on the telly do.

His fist blazed with crimson fire as he unclenched it, watching his hand burn without being hurt. The flames curled around his obsidian hand without harm, seemingly twisting and sputtering but not causing harm.

He stared at the flames alive, before suddenly wrenching his hand towards the wall of the Gryffindor dormitory.

The red fire leapt from his hand, and flew lazily through the air at about the speed a baseball would have, before impacting.

Harry wasn't prepared for the loud blast, and roar of flame when it hit, despite its small size. He rolled off of his bed with a yelp of surprise, and stared in shock at the large, sooty black mark on the wall, and the flames spreading on the wallpaper.

He regained control of his senses, and yanked his wand out of his sleeve and pointed it at the fire.

"Aquamenti!" he intoned clearly.

Something slapped him clean across the face. He stared in disbelief and fury at the wand in his hand.

He switched hands, to the one covered in sleek black incubi skin.

"I'll burn you to a cinder." He threatened. He received no response.

"Aquamenti!" He shouted.

A literal torrent of water shot out of his water, like a miniature fire hose. He controlled the flow with difficulty and soon put out the red flames.

He stared soaked floor and mangled wall, before sighing in annoyance, and pointing his wand again.

"Evanesco. Scourgify. Reparo." He enunciated clearly.

The water disappeared, before bubbles appeared out of nowhere to scrub the ugly black mark, leaving clean plaster behind. Then, the ends of the charred wallpaper stretched to meet each other.

As the ends of the wallpaper formed seamlessly together, he viewed the end result with satisfaction. There was nothing left but a normal, unblemished wall.

Still, he resolved to not to do any more of conjuring mystical flames indoors.

He put his wand away, and frowned as he felt a strange sensation, like a tiny prickle, under his sleeve.

He rolled it back, and found a disturbing sight.

The onyx fire-proof veela skin had spread down his arm, and he watched in mute fascination as the darkness reached his elbow, and capped it with a short, wicked looking spike.

"Bloody hell..." He swore slowly.

A sharp rap on the door made him jump. He looked frantically from the door to his morphed arm.

Shit! That explosion...of course someone heard it! Stupid! He berated himself, waving his arm frantically. I can't be seen like this!

"Er...go away! Transform back!" He hissed at his arm, unsure how to reverse the strange incubus skin. "Power down?" He asked, feeling rather stupid.

Finally, slowly, reluctantly, the spike shrank and the skin receded, releasing it's hold on his arm. Another harder knock on the door came.

He ripped his sleeve down and yanked the door open. He was expecting a house-elf, perhaps one of the teachers who had been within earshot.

He wasn't expecting the Headmaster himself. His mouth opened and closed as his mind worked furiously to come up with something to say.

"Good morning, Harry." Dumbledore prompted, his expression and tone flat. Harry shifted nervously.

"Good morning, Professor. Is there something I could help you with?" He responded politely.

There was a brief silence, which made Harry squirm uncomfortably, before he answered.

"Yes, actually. There was something I'd like to show you, that I believe I may have put off for far too long."

Harry stumbled out of the Floo, coughing and sputtering. He had always hated the damn thing...in fact, Portkeys too. And Apparation. Why were brooms the only magical method of traveling he could tolerate?

He was still wiping soot off of his face as he followed Dumbledore out of the small house they had appeared in.

They came out into a modest town. The sky was gloomy and choked with steel grey clouds, and the streets were totally deserted.

Harry's attention was soon caught and riveted by a statue that sat in the middle of the town square. It showed a man with messy hair and glasses, standing beside an attractive woman holding an infant...with a lightning bolt scar.

Underneath it read-

IN HONORED MEMORY OF JAMES POTTER, LILY POTTER AND HARRY POTTER. YOUR SACRIFICES WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.

Shortly below that, it listed his parent's birth and death dates. Trembling slightly, Harry turned to Dumbledore, who was staring impassively forward at the statue.

"Professor...where exactly are we?"

The corners of the Headmaster's lips twisted into a grimace, as if he had bitten into a rotten plum.

"Welcome, Harry...to Godric's Hollow."


	7. Chapter 7

Fleur sat in her bed, staring dully at the letter that had just been dropped in. By a white dove. Only one women would send those to her, this Fleur knew.

She peeled open the seal, which bore three white columns on black wax, the Greek number three, and pulled out the new orders.

Fleur,

Darling, how are you? I know those English are pushy sometimes. But still, Hogwarts! The most famous school in Europe! I've heard even that the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, takes classes there.

Well, I hope you remember to mind your manners. Learning from this Madam Pomfrey will undoubtedly be beneficial to your future. Try to make a few friends, perhaps even pick up a man, hmm? You should visit your cousins, while you're at it.

Your loving grandmother,

Lucy

Fleur's lips drew into a tight line. Lucy. It was almost mocking.

But she was Matriarch. Her word was stronger than written law, be it wizarding or Muggle. The message was hidden, but it was there. Keep her cover. Make sure to keep her image as a simple apprentice. Wait for whatever team Lucienne was sending.

And Harry Potter. Get close to Harry Potter. From that, Fleur could only assume one thing.

Her grandmother was after Harry Potter.

Slowly, the letter crumpled as her fist clenched.

"Where are we going, sir?"

Dumbledore moved slowly up the beaten path, seemingly impervious to the biting wind. Harry gathered his robe more tightly around himself, willing his teeth to stop chattering.

"You will understand when we reach our destination." Dumbledore responded calmly.

Harry willed down his frustration and kept walking. The ancient wizard wouldn't have brought him here if it wasn't important, this he knew, so he would hold his peace. For now.

Dumbledore reached forward, and pushed open a old gate, and Harry looked ahead. They were heading into a graveyard. A rather large one.

We're paying respects? To who? Harry thought, bewildered by this turn of events.

Furthermore, who would Dumbledore even want him to pay respects to? The Dursleys had had a great uncle who had died when Harry was seven, and he doubted he was buried in this mostly Wizarding town. He was the only dead relative Harry was aware of besides...

Dumbledore stopped.

They stood in front of a white marble headstone. It was stark and bright compared to the dull greys of the others. The words on it were easily visible.

James Potter, Born 27 March 1960, Died 31 October 1981.

Lily Potter, Born 30 January 1960, Died October 31 1981.

Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut. But the surprises were not over, as he saw under the names that instead of Rest In Peace, under that it read-

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Those words sent a chill through Harry that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked up at Dumbledore, who was staring solemnly at the headstone.

"Sir...isn't that a Death Eater motto?" Harry asked, sensing that the Headmaster wasn't the one who was going to be the one to break the silence here.

"It can be interpreted many different ways, Harry." Dumbledore replied, not unkindly. "In this case, I believe it uses the gentler context...the concept of living after death. Together. In peace."

"Right." That would make sense. "Professor...is there somewhere, in the village, maybe, we can buy flowers? Or something? For the graves." Harry couldn't hide the wistful edge to his voice. It felt like something was clogging his throat.

Dumbledore cracked a smile, a small, sad one. He raised his wand and drew it in a quick, small circle, and a bouquet of roses appeared out of nowhere. He caught it with surprising deftness for an old man, and handed it to Harry.

"One of the many solutions magic provides for the most mundane of problems." The older wizard offered softly.

Harry was hardly listening, as he slowly, almost reverently laid to bouquet in front of the marble headstone.

He remained hunched over the graves of his dead parents, as Dumbledore began to speak.

"Your parents were very special people, Harry. In all my years, I have scarcely seen a couple that was so bright and promising as that of the Potters. So young, yet so filled with drive, and ambition, and hope." Dumbledore folded his hands behind him. "When the war began, they were two of our greatest warriors. Your father joined the Aurors, and your Mother worked at St. Mungo's when she was not busy taking care of you. They were pinnacles of righteousness, sworn enemies of the Dark Arts."

Harry said nothing, but it was apparent he was listening, so Dumbledore continued on.

"You were their greatest inspiration, Harry. You were what kept them going. They fought, they struggled, in order to create a peaceful future, for you. I'm sure that even in these times of strife, they are still watching over you, urging you onwards. And, my boy, I'm sure you will make them proud."

Harry straightened, and hastily rubbed his eyes with his robe sleeve. His eyes were red. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore." He whispered quietly. "Is this all you wanted to show me, or could we leave?"

"Only one more stop to make, Harry. Then we will make haste back to Hogwarts."

Harry nodded listlessly and followed the Headmaster , as they headed onwards out of the cemetery.

Neither wizard was aware of the two pairs of eyes following their every move.

Colette looked impassively over the small town of Hogsmeade, from the tall pine she sat in. It seemed rather sleepy, but then, the school year hadn't started yet and it was missing the life that the students of Hogwarts provided it.

She heard the whisper quiet flap of wings behind her and the rough rustle of branches, and knew who it was without thinking.

"Alexa." She uttered coolly. Colette didn't take her eyes from the sight of the village.

She felt the tree wobble and knew that Alexa was sitting down next to her. One time, she would have been thankful for the company. Now, she did not need it. She had the service of the Mistress to keep her strong.

Colette glanced at her, to where her once-friend was glancing at her worriedly, devoid of her usually teasing nature. Alexa was considered exotic, with her lustrous black hair, but there was an easy explanation for that.

In the first thirteen or so years of a young Veela's life, she was unable to utilize her aura. This was because the aura was spread as far as possible, like the barest of mists, taking touching as many males as it possibly could.

Those who had studied this had found an easy answer. A little known or utilized property of the Veela aura was as a sort of passive form of Legimency. But, instead of memories, it read your desires, your emotions.

The aura in a Veela's childhood was spread so far, taking in the desires and fantasies of as many men as possible, so they could imprint these upon the girl herself. Then, the body would slowly mould itself to fit those fantasies.

When the young Veela hit puberty, the imprinting process was already mapped out, and their appearance was set. This was how Veela appeared as if they had stepped straight out of a wet dream; it was because they had.

The reason so many Veela were blonde was simply because it seemed that most men preferred blondes. Alexa had seemingly grown up around a majority of men who preferred brunettes.

"What have we got?" Colette suddenly snapped. Alexa flinched in surprise, before resting her chin on her knee.

"Not much we don't already know." The other Veela admitted grudgingly. "The boy stays mostly to himself, and his two friends. He rarely comes down to the village except to occasionally buy some candy at the shop or have a butterbeer. Basically, just like a normal student, if a bit quiet."

"Hmm." She honestly hadn't expected to get much more. "Do we know anything about him in school?"

"Next to nothing. He's a Gryffindor, and that's all we have. You know what that means, yes?"

"Yes." They had done some brief research on Hogwarts. Hogwarts, A History was among one of the books Colette had skimmed through. "Courageous and brave, or so they say. It matters not, though. He will bow before the Mistress before too long."

"Do you remember our training?" Alexa asked, so suddenly that Colette was taken aback. "When we were still just fresh out of our mother's apron's strings, proud to be taken in by one of the most prestigious schools in France?"

"...yes..." The captain of the small squad replied slowly. Aile Brulant, or 'The Nest', it was nicknamed, an all-Veela school directly funded by the Mistress, where girls learned from the moment they hit puberty and gained access to their powers how to properly utilize them. "...why? How is this relevant?"

"We were so young, then, weren't we, cherie?" Alexa's tone was wistful. "So young and full of hope."

"Where are you going with this? Is there any point to this needless reminiscing?" Colette asked, annoyed and a bit testy.

"What happened to us, Colette?"

"...what do you mean, 'what happened'?" Colette responded, confused.

"Our bodies remain young, of course-" Alexa gestured to her own body, as beautiful as if it were sculpted by angels, just like all the rest of the Veela. " -but the hope. Where has the hope gone?"

"What are you talking about? We have hope." Colette insisted stubbornly. "The Mistress's dream. To once again show the world that Veela are the greatest species ever created. To take back what is rightfully ours. It's what we've all been working for. What we've been dreaming for." Colette frowned slightly. "You know that." It was not a question.

For a long moment, Alexa stared at Colette, before bowing her head.

"...of course I do. I was being silly." Her voice seemed slightly strangled. "It feels nice to indulge every once and then, you know?"

"Do it on your own time." Colette replied sternly, staring with some amount of befuddlement at Alexa, before shaking it off quickly. "Now, here is the plan. The Mistress informs me that the boy seemed eager, so we are to make contact as soon as possible. The first thing we must do is secure a place of operations...

The old wood creaked as Harry walked slowly through the vine choked Potter Cottage. His steps were tentative and careful, as if he were walking among broken glass.

He stared around what used to be the living room, and let out a slow breath. A feeling welled up in him, that took a moment to really recognize. Disappointment.

He could remember this house, better than probably any other, thanks to the torturous visions of the dementors. His hand drifted down to touch a sofa, once white and pristine, now greenish yellow and rotten, soaked by many rainfalls and covered in strange lichens.

Had he expected his parent's home to look the same? He supposed. Dumbledore had explained a little to him. So many things broken, and shattered...Dad put up a good fight, it looks like...

The wards and Fidelus Charm had been tied to them while they lived. When they died, it had all collapsed, and the cottage had been exposed to the world. No Muggles remembered the Potters living there, of course. One of the perks of magic. Harry glanced out the window, where Dumbledore was waiting calmly by the sign marking it as his parent's cottage.

Harry smiled slightly as he remembered the many messages written across it, in everlasting ink, the words of encouragement. Dumbledore had elected to stay outside.

"I wouldn't dream of intruding here, my boy. Take as much time as you need."

Harry's shoes crunched as he stepped through the remains of a long shattered lamp, broken long, long ago, and up the first stair. He could remember this flight of stairs. Or rather, the person fleeing up it, those nearly fifteen years ago.

"No! Take me instead! Don't hurt my son!"

"Silly girl...stand aside!"

"NO!"

Harry ran one hand down the moss covered wall. Had no one thought he might want this place? It couldn't have taken that much magic to keep it in order for him. A bubble of resentment grew in his chest. Had no one thought that he might want more of his parents than just a vault and a gravestone?

She nearly tripped as she scrambled up the stairs, terror driving her every step. He was coming. The angry whine of spell fire had ceased downstairs, and she could not even hope that it was James that had survived.

She held Harry to her bosom, protecting her most important possession zealously.

Harry winced and swayed as the image drove itself into his consciousness, stars brushing the edges of his vision. He blinked in confusion and pressed against the wall to steady himself. Possession? He wondered, staring up the stairs, to where his room was.

His vision blurred and grayed.

Even as she slammed the door shut, throwing every locking charm she knew onto it as she placed Harry gently in his crib, she knew it wouldn't be enough.

Why couldn't that stupid man have just stalled him a tad longer?

Harry's steps were unsteady as his body moved of it's own accord, following the path that Lily Potter had those many years ago. What the hell is happening? Why can't I control my body? He thought, horrified. He neared the top of the stairs.

Another image seared his thought away. This one he recognized.

She stood, chest heaving in agitation as she stood, arms outstretched to protect her child. Her mission, her life, it mattered not now. All that mattered was her child. All that mattered was Harry.

She watched as the door exploded open, and a sword whizzed towards her neck and that wasn't part of the memory-!

Harry didn't so much dodge the sword as his knees buckled at just the right moment. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, before a hand grabbed his robe and pitched him across the room with ease.

He crashed into something that broke with a crash and fell in a heap on the floor. He managed to sit upright against the wall before the sword pierced his chest.

Harry choked, tasting copper and salt in his mouth. The pain was excruciating. But it helped him focus, and he finally got a view of his attackers.

The sword was held by a man all in dark robes. His face was pale and bloodless, and Harry watched his thin lips curl into a fanged grin. His mind connected the two. Vampire. Harry thought.

There was another dark figure standing near the window. A woman, Harry judged through the pain filled haze, from the slim figure.

She said something in a language that Harry couldn't place. Something Slavic. She glanced out the window, almost nervously. Dumbledore. They're afraid of him. They're vampires, and they're-

A sudden vicious twist of the sword made Harry choke out a snarl of pain, as it was removed. The male turned the female and smirked, saying something else.

Harry's attention was drawn, inexplicably, to his left. His hand twitched as he touched a small ornament, and as he glanced at the cylindrical bars he sat in a heap of, he realized he was sitting in the remains of his old crib. Harry stared dully a small green ornament- a frog, maybe?- lying broken on the musty floor.

The vampire noticed, and raised his sword again, an annoyed expression flickering across his face.

That's right. This is my old room...in my house. Mine. Harry felt something stir inside him, sending heat rushing through his veins. This is my house, my home, and these vampires, these assassins, they attack me here? It coiled like a hellish serpent in his stomach, and Harry looked up, feeling strength return to his numb limbs. They strike at me in the home of my fathers?

They dare? Something snapped within him.

The sword fell, and Harry jerked upright, roaring and flinging the crimson flame in a torrent from his hands. The male snarled as his cloak caught fire and leapt back, and Harry stumbled to his feet, his teeth bared in a wordless snarl.

Then, the fire abruptly was cut off as what felt like a troll's club smashed into him from the side, pushing him up against the wall. Harry's vision was obscured by a shrieking face, and he realized his mistake. The female. I forgot about the girl.

Harry screamed as something cold and icy rammed into his lungs. He heard the male yell something, and the female snarled at him, baring her teeth wide in obvious preparation to bite.

"Sol Solim Corona!"

Dumbledore! Was Harry's one, single thought as the face suddenly was obscured by an obscenely white light, and a humming sound filled the air. The female shrieked, and Harry slumped to the floor as she let go.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking like an avenging god as he blasted the vampire with purest sunlight from his wand. Harry watched as Dumbledore's free hand lifted, and a heavy bookcase rose into the air, before it flew and slammed into the male, immobilizing him.

The woman fell over, clawing at her face and exposed skin, and Dumbledore advanced, his face grim. Harry watched as the ancient wizard advanced, relentless in his assault. The female curled into a ball in the corner, her skin peeling and crumbling like aged parchment, shrieking and sobbing with agony.

Dumbledore merely stood over her, his face blank, wand blasting until the vampire finally stopped moving. She suddenly froze up, rigid as a statue, before her entire form simply caved, falling in onto itself in a pile of ash.

There was a brief, awful silence. Dumbledore turned to the wounded Boy-Who-Lived.

"Harry-"

There was a crash from the other side of the room as the bookcase collapsed, and the male shot out, merely a dark blur.

Dumbledore whirled around, his wand at the ready, but the vampire wasn't attacking.

The nearest window being too close to the two wizards, the male simply rammed through the wall, old plaster and wood giving way, leaving a person sized hole in the wall of the house as he leapt down and out.

Dumbledore was at the hole at a speed much unsuited to his age, jets of light streaming from his wand. Harry struggled to his feet and hurried over just in time to see the male vampire streaking into the trees.

The Headmaster's wand and hand waved in intricate spirals and loops, as if conducting an invisible orchestra, as he glared at the front lawn of the Potter Cottage.

Forms rose like molds from the turf and grass, and took definition. Four legs, spots, orange hides. Cheetahs. Plenty of them.

With a dismissive wave of the old wizard's wand, the fastest creatures known on land shot into the woods, in pursuit, no doubt.

Harry peered blearily, feeling a tad lightheaded. "D'you think they'll catch him?" He mumbled.

Dumbledore's eyes were wide, as he turned to Harry. "Harry." He whispered. He stared at the boy, and Harry frowned.

"What?" Harry looked down, and saw the knife sticking out of his ribs. "Oh." He said, rather lamely, before his knees buckled the world spun and all went dark.

"I believe I must shoulder the blame entirely in this mishap, Harry." The Boy-Who-Lived could hear the guilt in the Headmaster's voice. He winced as Madam Pomfrey unwound a bandage a bit too fast. She murmured an apology. "I was arrogant, arrogant enough to believe I could sense any life that got near you, but..." Dumbledore trailed off, obviously brooding.

"But what?" Harry did his best to sound non-accusatory. Even if he had shown up late, he had saved Harry's life.

"Did you know, Harry, that vampires are most often employed as assassins against wizards? This is because vampires have no magical aura. They sacrifice their magic for their unnatural strength and agility, as well as their enhanced senses. As such, where I could normally sense nearly any other wizard or creature..." Dumbledore left the obvious answer to hang. "Vampires are also referred to as the 'living dead' for a reason. They have only the barest flicker of the normal aura of life that all living creatures emit, and hence, are almost impossible to sense through their auras."

Madam Pomfrey unwound the last bandage, baring his wounds, and waved her wand over them, which emitted a soft green light.

Dumbledore seemed stricken. "Oh, Harry, what have I done to you?" He whispered.

Harry couldn't honestly blame him. He was a mess.

The two diamond shaped wounds from the stab of the sword and dagger had not closed, nor filled over with scar tissue or pus like a normal wound. Instead, they gaped open, purplish green flesh moving out on his chest. Harry could see that they were still bleeding, too.

"The wounds won't close." Madam Pomfrey offered as means of explanation. "Something magical is preventing them; perhaps a curse on the weapons, or poison." The aged Mediwitch gently swabbed the inside of the sword wound, and then the dagger, before bagging the samples. "I'll test these and check for magical residue or venom after I close you back up." She picked up a clean bundle of bandages and began winding them around Harry's midsection and upper torso.

"No need." Dumbledore intoned, face solemn as he scrutinized the wounds. "I have seen this kind of wound before. It is a special toxin, magical in nature. It is only excreted by one snake in Britain that I know of. Nagini, Voldemort's familiar. What he will need is Blood Replenishing Potions, and heavy doses of the best numbing solutions you can concoct."

"Is there an antidote?" Pomfrey asked, all business, as Harry tried to ignore the needles of agony every time the bandages were tightened.

"Tragically, no."

"So I'm just going to have these wounds open forever?" Harry asked sharply, gritting his teeth as the Mediwitch finished and Transfigured the ends together with a flick of her wand.

"You need not worry, Harry." The Headmaster reassured him. "Survival of this poison depends on the victim's magical strength. When a wizard or witch is gravely wounded, their magic turns inward, speeding up the healing process. It is what allows us to survive accidents and injuries that would kill most normal Muggles outright, such as splinching. This venom can only be purged by long periods of rest and no magic, after which the wounds can be healed normally."

"I'm strong enough, right?" Harry asked, uncertain.

"Once again, my boy, you need not worry." Dumbledore replied, a sad twinkle in his eye. "You are much stronger than you think. I would estimate that you would be fully recuperated by the time the Hogwarts Express arrives, if not sooner. All you need to do is rest."

Harry sat back, relieved, feeling the oppressive weight lift off of his shoulders.

"Fleur!" Madam Pomfrey's voice rose sharply. "I need a drip of Blood Replenishing Potion, as soon as possible!"

Harry heard the Beauxbatons former-champion's voice emanate from the end of the hall, where the Mediwitch's office lay. "Oui, Madam!"

The school nurse nodded sharply. "And rest you will get, Mr. Potter. You're not leaving that bed or this wing for a few weeks, at the very least."

Harry thought about protesting, before he rationalized that the more rest he got, the faster he would get out of this place. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey." He answered resignedly.

"Poppy, will spare me a moment alone with young Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore requested mildly.

The Mediwitch rose without complaint. "I'll start brewing the Numbing Draughts. And a dose of Sleeping Solution. Do not leave your bed, Mr. Potter, or I be forced to take unpleasant measures in ensuring your cooperation." The last she directed at Harry, a dire warning, before leaving.

As soon as she left, Dumbledore turned to Harry. "Harry, do you understand the ramifications of this attack?"

Harry slowly nodded. "If the vampire's weapons were coated with Voldemort's poison, then...the vampires have sided with him."

"Excellent, Harry. You must remind me to award you points once the year begins." Harry smiled slightly at the joke. "I had not believed that the vampires would side with Tom, not after what happened the last time. It seems that I was mistaken."

"What happened?" Harry prompted.

"Well, Harry, tell what you can recall of vampirism and the nature of those afflicted."

Harry frowned, trying to cobble together the bits and pieces he could remember from the History of Magic lessons and DADA classes.

"The disease is incurable, they have super strength and speed and their senses are enhanced, like you said...er...they can see in the dark, they don't like werewolves..."

"There! There is the root of the problem." Dumbledore cut in. "Vampires and werewolves do not simply dislike eachother, my boy. They are utterly repulsed from eachother, like two sides of a magnet. Like cats and dogs, they cannot stand being around eachother, and share a rivalry written in their very blood. Thirteen years ago, Tom employed the services of the vampires, and the werewolves, and declined to tell them they were working together. When you banished him from his body, in the ensuing chaos, the link was discovered. They left his side, and began slaughtering any Death Eaters they could find." Dumbledore's lips quirked in an almost smile. "Ironically, this was the only time they truly worked as allies, in revenge against Tom's forces."

"So they must have forgiven him." Harry worked it out, following the reasoning. He was surprised when the Headmaster shook his head.

"Doubtful. The vampires are organized in families, much like the Muggle mafia, and they are exceptionally cruel. They never forget, and seldom forgive. No, my guess is that Tom joined forces with a new, smaller family, and has promised them some manner of power or riches."

Harry clasped his hands in his lap. A question popped up in his mind.

"Did the veela ever join Voldemort's side?" Harry queried, before realizing his folly. That was a strange question, and Dumbledore might inquire about his motives.

To his relief, though, the ancient wizard looked surprised, rather than curious, which quickly morphed to delight.

"Harry, you have heard of the Triumvirate of Beasts? It seems your marks in Professor Binns class bely your ability."

"Er..." He had never heard it before in his life. "I think I heard it somewhere. Hermione, I think." Harry lied quickly.

"Ah, the young Ms. Granger. I should have known." Dumbledore chuckled ruefully. "I shall refresh your memory. The Triumvirate of Beasts is the nickname of the three species of magical creatures that make up enough of a portion of the magical population that the International Confederation of Wizards and Ministries of the magical countries formally recognize them as separate governments and provide laws and citizenship for them. Vampires, werewolves and veela."

"Formally recognize...that means there's laws protecting them, right? From getting killed or imprisoned without the embassies knowing. And they have rights to a fair trial and stuff too." Harry pulled up his memories of government. "Do they all have their own Ministries? Wouldn't they need a country for that?"

"Not all people choose a Ministry as their form of government, Harry. The vampires have a council that meets every new moon. The werewolves instinctually follow the largest 'pack', so to speak. And the veela are governed by their matriarchs, thirteen of them, all of them following the First Matriarch, whom they refer to as the Mother." Dumbledore shifted in his seat. "And the Triumvirate could very well own their own Ministries if they wished, since they possess quite a few countries of their own."

"Really?" Don't wizards control the countries? Harry had always assumed that each country possessed a wizarding community of it's own. This was new information.

"Do not look so surprised." Dumbledore chastised him. "Though I suppose that some of this attitude is natural, since you happen to have the fortune of being born in the strongest wizarding country in the world. Many other countries, however, are controlled by the Triforce. The vampires, for example, did in fact originate from Transylvania, and hold their council there. It is under complete vampire rule. As is Serbia, Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic. Various other countries, including ours, hold vampire families."

"And the others?" Harry asked, barely refraining from asking about the veela.

"The werewolves do not hold any countries officially, but they converge mostly in Germany, Austria, and other Slavic nations. Russia, though owned officially wizards, hold a particularly large population. They and the vampires were rather reduced in power after Tom's fall, since shortly after extracting their vengeance upon the Death Eaters, they began fighting amongst themselves." One of Dumbledore's wrinked hands smoothed his robes. "The veela are currently the strongest in power, since they never officially took sides when Tom rose. They own France, Holland, Luxembourg, Greece, and have a large following in Japan and China."

"...Bloody hell." Harry murmured, taken aback.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Indeed. Although the wizarding population is much stronger than any individual part of the Triumvirate, were they ever to join forces, we would be in very serious danger. Luckily for us, they all strongly detest each other. The vampires and werewolves because of their blood rivalry, the veela because they believe the other two to be false beasts, considering that their powers can be acquired by any who contract lycanthropy or vampirism."

Harry stared straight ahead. "So we're safe."

"More like we maintain a quantum of tolerance." Dumbledore corrected smoothly. "Though, I am curious, Harry, as to why you inquired about the veela in particular."

Harry opened his mouth, and blurted the first story that came to mind. "I remembered that Hermione mentioned something about veela being related to vampires and werewolves. Probably when she mentioned that Triumvirate of Beasts thing."

Dumbledore stared at Harry perhaps a moment too long, before his face broke into an easy, grandfatherly smile. "It is to be expected, I suppose. From what I hear through the grapevine, when Ms. Granger opens her mouth, she rarely closes it until she has said what she wishes to say."

"Right." Harry replied, weak with relief and guilt. More lies. How many more lies would he tell?

How many more could he bear?

"THAT INSECT! HE DARES! RAMELA! RAMELA! GIVE HER BACK TO ME!"

The roars of the injured hunter echoed through the open doors of the darkened hall, making many of the vampires wince as their enhanced hearing magnified the sound. The Lord paid it no mind, staring at the thrashing vampire impassively as two others struggled to hold him to his bed.

"She is dead, Vrej. If she has been captured or killed, then she is dead to us, shamed by her failure." The Lord uttered flatly, and emotionlessly. "You are only alive because of your history and your knowledge. Now. What. Happened?" He spoke slowly and calmly, as if speaking to a child.

"RAMELA! RAMELA! HE STOLE HER FROM ME!" The Lord of the Hall sighed as the magnified blast of sound buffeted his eardrums.

He supposed that Vrej had some justification. He had just lost his lover, suffered horrific burns on nearly fifty percent of his body, and had to fight off a pack of wild cats, from the looks of the scratches and bites. It was a miracle he had made it back at all, a credit to his skill.

One of the vampires let two others take over, and hurried over the Lord's side, holding an empty syringe.

"He's not healing, sire. The bites and scratches have healed, but the burns, they will not!" The vampire shook the syringe angrily. "This was vintage veela hymen blood. Perfectly preserved! And it did nothing!"

"Calm yourself, Tsakig." The Lord ordered coolly.

He stepped forward, despite the vampire's panicked warnings. Vrej's hand shot out and grasped him on the forearm, his sleeve falling back to expose the afflicted skin. The Lord grimaced in true disgust.

The burn was horrific. The skin bubbled and boiled as he watched, with a color resembling a boiled lobster. And the smell...the Lord's lips thinned, and his eyes, narrowed.

"What did the boy do to you, my friend?" He asked softly.

Vrej, through some supreme force of will, forced his body to mere shudders, his agonized red eyes focusing on the Lord.

"Eshkhan!"He gasped out, as if realizing for the first time that the Lord was in the room. "Eshkhan, help me! It burns! It BURNS!"

"I am here, my friend." The Lord replied softly. "Tell me what happened."

"Fire! From his hands, the crimson flame! Eshkhan, make it stop, please!" The nigh-legendary hunter sobbed in torment, as his flesh regenerated before being destroyed yet again in the bubbling burns, over and over again.

"What else?" The Lord pressed on, unsatisfied.

"His eyes, all red, like blood, ESHKHAN, HELP ME!" He screamed, before the vampires were forced to restrain him once more.

The Lord stepped back and left the room, his mind racing. His friend's howls soon faded from his ears.

He had lived long, very long, being immune to the passage of time as he was, just like all other vampires. As such, vampires kept very accurate histories, by written word or spoken tongue. There were no myths among vampire tales, only hidden truths.

He remembered when his father had died, of a werewolf's bite. A werewolf's bite was absolute, slow and painful death for any vampire, just as their bite was to a werewolf.

As he lay dying, his father had given him a key and a message.

"Read the histories, my son, and defend our people from all threats past and future, just as I have done."

And in his father's locked desk, he had read of the secret histories, that known only to the Lord of the Hall, head of the Kenderian Family. He had learned of the origin of their race, of the foes they had overcome.

Or so we thought. The Lord clenched his fist. One straggler, one lone survivor. But the danger of that one...!

Male veela. And not the pathetic, nearly magicless weaklings that they spawned today, guarding them carefully, or even worse, in the case of the French.

Real, true-blooded incubi, impossible to control and nearly impossible to kill, able to turn any women to their cause with the slightest touch, and send men screaming with terror with a hard look. Eshkhan knew their power, knew that it was them that had allowed the veela to sit at the height of power for nearly five hundred years.

That boy...he could not have come at a worse time! The Lord mentally snarled, pacing in his study. Us and those filthy dogs at a fraction of our true power, whilst the bitches are slowly rising, despite their disgusting blood mingling with the humans.

The veela blood had been slowly thinning, this Eshkhan knew. They had been attempting counter-measures, such as the Provision Law that had been enacted in China ñ each full-blooded veela women was required to sire at least one male child of veela genes every twenty years. From the reports of his spies, rather drastic measures had been happening in France, things that he was sure even the werewolves would cringe at.

Another good century or two would have seen their powers whittled away to nothing, Eshkhan was sure. But the appearance of a male veela ñ pure of blood, from the sounds of it ñ that could halt the downfall of the veela in it's tracks.

No, worse! It could catapult them into another Age of Domination! He mentally screamed. And it had to be him; Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, beloved hero of Britain, the strongest wizarding state in the world!

Something had to be done. The veela couldn't get their hands on him, on his genes, on his strong blood. It was a small mercy that there were virtually no veela in Britain, so the chances of him meeting any were slim if he did not.

Eshkhan knew what he must do. His Family could not do this alone, it was too small, to damaged from the genocide. But it was a Family. And he was it's Head.

It was high time for a Meeting of the Blood.

For Armenia, for our people, for our species, Harry Potter must die.


	8. Chapter 8

He coaxed all the haste he could from his ridged feet. He had been betrayed, but by any true god that may have been listening, let her not pay the cost for his mistakes. Not her, anyone but her!

Screams filled the forest, and he felt her agony like it was his own. Powers above, they were burning her to death! Despair and helpless rage tore at his throat, a cry that wouldn't work its way past the panic that clogged his windpipe.

Not for Your eyes, stay Away, WAKE UP!

Warriors melted out of the shadows, only the pinpricks of their red and yellow eyes giving them away in the night. He fell upon them like a hurricane. Fire leaped to his hands and flared hot before intensifying, clinging to his arms like a second skin. The whole process took only moments, but it was long enough for them to bombard him with red and green gouts of flame.

He held a hand in front of him, parting the fire like Moses had the Red Sea. At normal concentration, these flames would not harm him, but these warriors were specially trained to hunt his kind. Their own kind. Only his own flame covering his hand saved him.

He reared one hand back and-

No...MINE...

-slamming his elbow backward, the mikrodonti ñ or 'little fang' ñ at the end piercing the skin and destroying the warrior from the inside out as his fire consumed him, reducing his innards to naught but ash-

Wake Up, Harry!...

-roaring in rage as he watched the foul bitch disappear into the night, her feathered form silhouetted by the rising sun over the surface of the-

...

-sobbing as he gathered her ruined form into his arms, the light fading from her eyes even as he watched.

Then, there was pain, acute pain from behind, and he felt something punch through his chest and rip her from his arms. He looked down and saw-

WAKE. UP.

"...-ou alright-mon Dieu!" Fleur shrieked in surprise beside him as Harry shot upright in his bed with a yell, clapping one hand to his scar. His fingers came back wet and sticky, and Fleur pushed him back by his shoulders as she frowned.

"You scared ze shit out of me, 'arry Potter!" Fleur admonished him fiercely, reaching into one of the pockets of her smock for a familiar tin. "And ze scar, bleeding again!" She muttered, cracking open the Cutbane and smearing it on his forehead, careless of the blood.

Harry barely even felt it. What the hell was that? It was just like before. I was someone else, a male veela, and I was fighting...other veela?

His scar gave a particularly vicious throb, and Harry gritted his teeth, a groan escaping his lips. Dimly, he heard Madam Pomfrey's voice.

"Fleur, is everything all right?"

"Fine, Madam!" Fleur said quickly. "A nightmare, nothing to worry about!" The Mediwitch-in-training dabbed a bit more cream onto the scar, before wiping her fingers on her smock and capping it.

And what was that voice? Harry persisted. It had seemingly drifted out of the shadows, almost in the background. The closest thing he could compare it to was in his second year, when he heard the basilisk in the pipes, though this voice had been guttural and snarling, rather than smooth and serpentine.

"Fleur...are there any snakes hanging around here?" Harry spoke up, glancing at her. Her face gained a surprised look as she replaced his IV holding the Blood Replenishing Potion.

"Snakes? You think we would allow snakes in ze infirmary?" Fleur asked, shaking her head. "Silly leetle boy..."

Harry ignored the barb, sitting back. Then what-?

...A curious Mind...FESTERS and rots...

Harry jolted upright again, as a cold sensation overtook him, making hairs rise on the back of his neck. He looked around quickly. Fleur watched him, her annoyance turning into concern.

"Is zere something wrong?" She asked quickly. "Any aches, itching, rawness, trouble breathing? Zat could be ze sign of an allergic reaction, you must tell if zis is happening!"

"No, no, nothing like that." Harry replied slowly. He took one last look around. "It's just..." He halted, remembering Ron's words. Hearing voices isn't good, even in the wizarding world. Harry reminded himself. "...you're sure there isn't a single snake around here? Not one?"

"No! No snakes." Fleur insisted. She looked at him curiously. "Why? You have a phobia?"

"No..." Harry listened futilely for one last moment, before laying back down. "...it's nothing. Nevermind."

"You are sure?" Fleur said again, not believing him. "If zere is anything out of ze ordinary, you must inform me, zis is important, you understand?"

"Yes, it's nothing, forget about it." Harry maintained firmly. It's all in my head...but what does that mean?

Laying immobile in a hospital bed, Harry found, was incredibly, incredibly boring. He didn't even have company, the castle being empty and Fleur and Madam Pomfrey being off doing whatever they were doing. This, coupled with the fact that he was not allowed to get out of bed, made it intolerable.

Not that I could. Harry silently admitted. His body felt weak and fatigued, and his muscles were like water when he tried to command them.

But he had to do something, or he was sure he was going to go insane from lying here like a marionette with its strings cut.

...YOUR gift...embrace YOUR heritage...

Oh, not this again! Harry mentally groaned, as goose bumps rippled down his skin. It felt as if whoever was speaking was right behind him, breathing their cold breath onto his neck. In other words, deeply disconcerting. My life is already screwed up enough, thank you, I don't need imaginary voices in my head too!.

There was no answer, and the cold feeling receded, which Harry supposed was a good thing.

He remained in the bed silent for the better part of an hour.

Inexorably, his mind kept drifting back to what the voice had spoken. It had, after all, been just about the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day. Harry fiercely forced the instinct to favor the voice down, knowing that if hearing voices was bad, listening to them was probably the next step towards total lunacy. Use your gift...what gift, anyway? Magic? Everyone here has magic, it's hardly a gift when everyone has it.

That brought Harry back to the other part. Embrace my heritage...I'm a Potter, what heritage does that give me? Scruffy hair and Quidditch talent? Or Mum's side, which delightfully leaves me a shitty childhood, green eyes, and...

...an unawakened line from your mother's side...Lucienne's remembered words rang in his ears.

My powers. My male veela powers. Can the voice and the male veela powers be connected? Harry wondered. He glanced at his hand, laying limp and pale in the sheets. Do veela commonly hear voices? I've encountered stranger stuff, to be sure. But what if isn't? Then I'm just following a crazy voice in my head.

The voice wants me to use my powers...but the voice may just be a hallucination. Was his judgment to be trusted even now? Was he thinking clearly? Did an insane person recognize insanity?

Is that what you want? Is it! He mentally projected as hard as he could, firmly against doing so out loud. He wasn't that far. Yet. There was no answer.

Harry's fingers twitched, and he gently pressed his middle finger against his thumb. All it took was one little movement...

But what if I'm wrong? He mentally argued. There's only one way to find out.

Harry snapped his fingers.

Instantly, a rush of heat roared through Harry's veins, so much that he gasped quietly before muffling it. The feeling of power, of sheer life, was intoxicating. How had he missed this feeling before? How had he gone without it?

And all from the little flame, dancing at his fingertip. Harry didn't hesitate, sitting up with his revitalized body to let the black inky skin spread to his forearm once more. He held it out outstretched, admiring the red fire flickering in the air.

Recalling a sequence from his dream, he closed his eyes and concentrated. The fire hissed angrily, before hugging closer to his arm, the flame now a murky dark red. Not nearly as dense as he remembered from the dream, but a start.

The incubus transformation had spread to his elbow, and the spike had taken form again. No, not spike, Harry mentally corrected. Mikrodonti.

There was a low snarl, and suddenly there was a feeling of ice to accompany the warmth.

MIND YOUR SURROUNDINGS!

Harry jumped at the piercing roar of the voice, before his attention was drawn to the creaking of a door. He quickly released his hold on the fire, resisting the urge to cry out at the loss of feeling. His senses dulled and his arm normalized, the onyx sheen vanishing to expose unblemished skin. Harry felt the blood in his veins run cold again just as the door opened and Fleur strode into the Wing, her eyes curious. He felt the presence of the strange speaker, waiting with an almost eager air.

"I saw a light," she said, as means of explanation. Fleur raised her other hand, which carried a goblet filled with some unidentifiable green liquid. "I thought, perhaps, you might wish for a sleeping potion, to pass ze time."

Harry mind immediately leapt to the St. Mungo's nurses, but Fleur's face showed no obsession, only mild curiosity and honesty.

"No, I-..." Sleeping might bring the nightmares again. Even Dreamless Sleep potions wouldn't work on them, something which had left Fleur decidedly puzzled when he mentioned it. Admittedly, it had happened only a few times, but those times had been strange enough for him to try to avoid them if at all possible. "-no thanks." But just sitting here was intolerable. "Am I allowed to move yet?"

Fleur shook her head, tutting gently under her breath. She shut the door behind her. "'arry Potter, you must stop asking zis already, ze answer is ze same no matter how you wish it were different." Her voice was half amused, half exasperated. "Ze wounds, whining about zem will not heal zem any faster, comprenez?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest ñ he was most certainly not whining ñ before he realized that it would be building a case against himself and shut it.

"Well, I've got to do something." Harry insisted, annoyed. "Otherwise, I'm going to go stark raving mad in this bloody bed!"

Fleur smirked, her lips curving only slightly at the edges. "We would not want zat, would we? Sit up."

...take her NOW...the voice snarled suddenly. Teasing little filth-blooded wench, in front of ME she dances out of arms length? Too long has it been...TAKE. HER. NOW!

"What!" Harry yelled aloud, his voice strangled. Fleur looked at him askance.

" I am going to switch ze pillow, what is wrong with zis?" she asked in confusion. She lifted her wand out of a pocket in her smock and summoned a pillow from another bed with an effortless flick. "Sit up!" Fleur gestured impatiently with her wand.

"Wh-oh, right, sure." Harry replied quickly. The pillow was replaced quickly and he sat back. What the hell! His mind still reeled in shock. "Thanks." he said distractedly, listening carefully for a response. He was extremely relieved when there was none, only the continued nagging presence, waiting, watching beyond his vision. Do I even want to know what that was about? Harry considered briefly. No, probably not.

"If you wish for something to do, I can offer a sketchpad, for ze drawing, perhaps, or a book. But nothing physical." Fleur seemed staunchly adamant on that last point.

I'm not much into drawing more than doodles, but a book...what were those two things Dumbledore mentioned again? "Fleur, have you ever heard of the Czerbach Theorum?"

"Theorum? Zat is Tranfigurations, non? Not my...how you say it, 'cup of cream'." Fleur shrugged, as she pulled up a chair and sat down. "I always preferred les Charmes, myself. I recall hearing it once, I think...but no, I remember nothing of it."

Charms! That had been the other one. "It's actually, 'cup of tea'." Harry corrected her absentmindedly, as he tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him to look up for Charms. "Then...what about...Underhill! Malcom Underhill."

Fleur's face brightened. "Ah! Oui, him I know, know well. At Beauxbatons, our teacher, he mentioned him many times. Seventh year, NEWT level Charms, I remember it well." The former champion smiled, her blue eyes misty with nostalgia. "Malcolm l'Impitoyable, or Malcolm the Unforgiving." Her eyes sharpened as Fleur looked back at him. "You want to hear about Merciless Malcolm? Where, might I ask, did you even hear of him in ze first place?" Her tone was slightly suspicious.

"Professor Dumbledore told me to research him." Harry said, seeing no harm in telling her.

"Ah. Well, I suppose it is no surprise zat ze Headmaster would push you towards ze advanced material, given your...situation."

No kidding. Harry thought in agreemenet. "So, Malcolm Underhill?" he persisted.

Fleur snorted, smiling. "Very well. But ze story starts not with him, but his wife, Lilian Underhill. A woman of great beauty, born and bred of noble blood, she married him young, when he was hailed as a prodigy, a genius, winning his Mastery in ze field of Charms at ze age of twenty three, the youngest ever. To ze disappointment of many, however, he chose to teach, rather zen research and invent new charms. Ze Lady Underhill, she was most especially vexed when she heard of zis."

"You have to understand, zat Malcolm, he loved her. She was ze apple of his eye, ze flower of his life. But Lilian, she loved not him, but his skills. She married him because he was ze rising star, and she wished to rise with him." Fleur's brittle tone told Harry what she thought of this. "She knew her game, and Malcolm, having devoted ze majority of his life to study, fell to her wiles without a second thought."

"When Malcolm made his decision, she did not question him, did not voice her argument calmly, like any sensible woman should. No, she, feeling cheated of ze status she thought zat she rightfully deserved, sought vengeance and escape. She entered into an affair, with one of Malcolm's older students, no less."

"To make zings worse, she made no attempt to hide zis infidelity. Malcolm was a gentle man, never raised a harsh word. All ze community knew of zis, and pitied ze man, who loved his wife, who had to go on with his life as if normal despite knowing of ze affair. And zere was no doubt he knew. Malcolm was never a stupid man."

"Slowly, ze looks of pity, and ze blatant lack of any return of ze love he felt for Lilian poisoned his heart, turned his manner cold as ice and rendered his spirits black. Finally, he could not stand it any longer." Harry could guess what came next, from Fleur's regretful tone. "He killed ze student, in a fit of rage."

"Did he kill her too?" Harry asked, now thoroughly engaged in the story. He forced himself not to stiffen when the unknown voice laughed darkly in his ear.

...bloodthirsty, aren't we? HARRY...

Fleur smiled; it was a slight, cold thing. "No, more ze pity. Malcolm could not bring himself to kill her. It was not love zat stopped him, but cruelty. He divorced her, calling her out as a whore in public, destroying her image, and stripped from her her wealth and noble status in ze courts. He took from her all she cherished. He then sold her into servitude, her family all too willing to part with her and ze shame she brought. From zen on, Malcolm switched to research, and in ze years to come, created some of ze most terrible charms ever known, quite a few of zem judged illegal by your Ministry today. Lilian got her wish in ze end, just not in ze way she wished."

"You seem to know a lot about him." Harry said, after a brief second of digesting the story. The cold presence of the other seemed almost taken aback, as if it had drawn back a bit, the feeling of its presence perhaps a tad less cold and overbearing. "Do you think that Malcolm's reaction might have been a bit over the top? I mean, couldn't he have just divorced her and moved on?"

Fleur regarded Harry with such coldness that he felt the brief urge to sink back. Whatever rapport there was between them dissipated, and her manner resembled the haughty girl who'd written him off at the Triwizard Tournament's onset.

"What Lilian did is ze worst possible thing any woman could do to a man. Taking him in like zat, taking his love and manipulating it like it is nothing. Killing is easy. Zat, however, zat is ze way you destroy a man. It is an evil and thoughtlessness beyond ze pale." Fleur's flat tone drifted off, morphing to thoughtfulness like quicksilver. "Though perhaps, Malcolm was to blame in ze first place."

"Malcolm was to blame?" Harry's tone was incredulous. "But Lilian, and, you said-"

"I said what she did was a terrible sin, but it would not have happened if Malcolm had not held in his feelings. If he had expressed his anger, perhaps Lilian would have seen ze error of her ways, or have held back from what she did for fear of his rage." Fleur said this casually, as if she were discussing ze whether. "A yell, and rant, a beating; any of zese, perhaps would have prevented her from pushing him off ze edge, if for nothing other zen caution's sake."

"But Lilian was his wife." Harry protested, frowning. "What she did was wrong, but there must have been a better solution then abusing her or yelling at her."

"Abuse?" Fleur seemed surprised. "I said he should express his anger. All people get angry; zis is a fact. But holding it in, zis is what is ze problem. A man can yell at his wife if he is angry with her, just as ze woman may if she is angry wiz him. Not doing so is an insult, it says zat you do not believe zey are strong enough to bear your anger. A man without anger is half a man."

"That's wrong, that's just..." Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it. What kind of woman wanted to get yelled at? "Not yelling doesn't mean you think they're weak. It doesn't," he maintained stubbornly.

...foolish PUPPET...your reasoning would best a hundred FOOLS, and your INCOMPLIANCE would shame a THOUSAND mules...This little rhyme seemed to greatly amuse it, as it began cackling in a wheezy high pitched tone. Harry tried as best he could to mute it to a mere buzzing in his ears.

"Oh?" It was amazing how challenging she could make this one syllable sound. "Zen what does it mean? Zat you wish to avoid a confrontation with her? Zen you are right, it does not mean zey are weak, it means zat you are. Malcolm was weak. He could not bring himself to fight with her, and hence, when it all became too much to bear, he broke."

"But he became strong afterward. You said that." Harry pointed out. But Fleur was already shaking her head.

"Non, he was not strong. Certainly, he became powerful, he became hard. But strong?" She once again ruefully shook her head. "Strong and hard are not ze same. Many men think so; and it is false. Hard breaks; strong...endures."

"I..." How am I to respond to that? It made a weird sort of sense, one that Harry couldn't quite fathom. "...think I understand. A little more than I did a minute ago, at any rate."

Fleur shrugged. "If you truly do, zen you will grow up to be strong. If not, zen one day, you will break, and zen, zen, you will understand zis completely." She smiled. "And what you have done, what you have endured so far, certainly points to ze former."

Harry blinked, and then blushed a little. It wasn't every day after all that one received such a compliment from such a fetching older girl.

Ducking his head to hide his embarrassment. "Uh...so do you think they'll have any of his books in the Library?"

The former champion blinked, and then stood. "Absolutely, would you like me to go to ze Library and see if ze Madam Pince would not mind parting with a few?"

"That would be great, thank you." Harry replied earnestly. Fleur answered with a smile and a nod, before heading out of the Wing.

...interesting...It murmured, with a childlike air of curiosity. A flightless WORM with the sense NEVER so COMMON as claimed...a rarity. How...DELIGHTFUL...The coldness receded, leaving Harry alone in the room, a distinct relief to him.

Well, that's a start, I suppose. Raising one hand, he snapped his fingers. A small flame appeared, and then was extinguished. The process repeated, warming Harry's bones in quick flashes. Things are finally starting to look up.

He could almost ignore the approving voice that rumbled ever so often in his ears. Almost.

The meeting place for the greatest and most powerful vampires alive - in a manner of speaking, of course - was not quite what most would expect. Most would expect a dungeon, or a dark forest, or perhaps a terrible, looming keep atop some sea-cliff.

In all fairness, it was a castle. But the Cetetea Poenari of Arges County, Romania had seen its better days. Days that had ended before the seventeenth century, when it had been ruined. Still, the Poenari Citadel made a sensible choice.

For one, it was very hard to reach, at least for humans. It lay strategically on the lip of a rather daunting cliff, forcing those who wished to reach it on a steep climb. Still, some Muggles went the one thousand, five hundred steps every once and then.

Contrary to expectations, there wasn't a single Muggle-Repellant Ward or attempt to magically cloak the castle. The strength of reputation outmatched that of magical deception. It wasn't difficult to arrange the disappearances of a few tour guides, delaying the tours so that the main Heads of Family could arrive. They wouldn't even hurt them, merely let them show up in the gutter of some bar or another, with an enthusiastically applied headache and perhaps light a pint or two of blood.

And there was also the sentimental value as well. Calling a Meeting of the Blood, a call only made when there was a credible threat to the race as a whole, enough to disregard Family lines, in the former main fortress of Vlad III Tepes seemed fitting. The fact that the place was ruined and it was the dead of night only added a touch of irony to it.

Tonight, the fortress seemed especially gloomy; a thick fog had descended upon the mountain, cloaking scent and preventing anyone, even a vampire, from seeing further than thirty feet in front of them. The ancient stone was already dark with dampness, and the tall arrow slits in the walls seemed more like so many weeping eyes in the gloom. When he had arrived, Eshkhan had only bothered Vrej to bring a single torch, just to be safe.

Eshkhan hadn't bothered to invite the lesser vampires; the numerous leaders of innumerous civens and families that merely took up residence in countries and did not own them. No, he had only invited the most powerful Heads of the largest Families.

Only Eshkhan waited in the small, completely empty war room, deep in the labyrinth passageways of Castle Poenari, first there in obeyance of custom. It had been completely cleared of furnishings, except for a small bowl supported by a pedestal standing in the center, with the lighting provided by a few ancient candles on the walls. It did not take long for the others to arrive.

Romania. First in the list, Eshkhan had contacted Cezar Dragomir, Head of the Dragomir Family of Romania. He had sent the messages to the three others Eshkhan had wished to contact, since although it stung the young Head to admit it, his stature was not elevated enough to convene a meeting on his own.

Cezar had only agreed out of protocol and a previous relationship with Eshkhan's father. Eshkhan had no doubt that the older vampire had several squadrons of his personal guard ready to kill Eshkhan if he did not deliver on the 'dire threat to us all' that he had mentioned in his letter, from the look in his eye as he entered the room, leaving his bodyguard outside with Vrej and waited.

Poland arrived second, Maryla Zielinski, Head of the Zielinski Family. Fiery-haired and of an even worse temper, she shot Eshkhan a look to kill as soon as she pushed open the door, saying a brief word to the hulking bodyguard at her shoulder, before shutting the door closed perhaps a bit harder than necessary. She leaned against the wall, across from Cezar, ignoring him completely.

Serbia and Croatia had arrived as one, which was not surprising, given the tight alliance they shared. Zoran Lekovic of Serbia and Tihomir Suminovic of Croatia might have been brothers, for their tall, thin builds and dark hair, the only difference being Tihomir's proudly groomed moustache. Indeed, they were nicknamed, 'The Twins' because of their nigh inseparability.

As soon as the pair assumed their place, Cezar turned to him. "We shall begin, now" he said bluntly, breaking the silence.

Eshkhan was caught off guard; not something he liked, and liked even less considering he was in the midst of people who could make him disappear with a snap of their fingers. "But the Czech-"

"Are not coming." Cezar said shortly. Eshkhan shut his mouth, feeling foolish. If he were still human, his cheeks would have flushed with his shame. The Czech had ignored it. He had known it might happen, yet the reality of his Family's real standing was like a slap in the face.

"I agree." Maryla's voice came as biting and scornful as rumor. Her arms crossed under her breasts and she surveyed the empty room dispassionately. "May we get this farce over with, already?"

Eshkhan felt his temper flare. "I am Head of a Family; it is my right." He bit out tightly.

She smirked. "The last dregs of a Family."

Eshkhan was sure Vrej would have lost it right there, and his own hand twitched, wishing for something to choke the life out of. Both of the Twins sent him a careful glance, as if he were a feral animal about to attack. Anyone who did not recognize that as a vicious barb at a nearly open wound would have to be light in the head. Eshkhan had to fight back the urge to snap at her himself quite hard.

Cezar raised his hands placatingly. "There is no need for this. You would not be here if you believed this false, Maryla, there is no need to be disrespectful." So. The Romanian Head's mild demeanor wasn't a rumor, either.

"I am here because I believe you." Maryla clarified icily. She grew a frosty smile, and glanced towards the Head of the Kenderian Family. "If I owe any respect, it is not towards this boy."

Eshkhan bit his inner lip, imagining it as her throat. One day, woman. One day you will look back on this day and weep. He vowed silently, glaring at her fit to drive a stake through her heart. He could almost feel Vrej restraining himself.

Cezar appraised her with a disapproving look, but said no more. He withdrew a small knife from his cloak, an action which sent the rest of the vampires doing the same. All four advanced towards the small bowl in the center of the room.

Their hands met in the middle, and iron met cold flesh. Blood dripped into the heavy iron bowl. There was a range and custom for this as well. They gave blood in accordance with respect. Naturally, as the organizer, Eshkhan gave the largest amount, followed by Cezar, who gave a bit more than half what the Kenderian Head had, a compliment. The Twins gave an even half each, a simple acknowledgement of custom. Maryla let a few drops fall, before quickly binding her hand with a smirk. Eshkhan felt his lip curl. An insult, if there ever was one.

Eshkhan gripped the rim of the heavy bowl with one hand and brought it to his lips easily. He swallowed the blood with a slight grimace. Vampire blood was thin, and bitter, lacking the life of others, one of the reasons why most vampires usually did not hunt each other; there was simply no profit or gain in it. But he drank it all, in a single lift, and set the bowl back down. It was a custom created to demonstrate trust. Those who answered the call of the Meeting of the Blood would weaken themselves, and give their strength to the caller. He wiped his lips with a handkerchief he fished out of his coat. Zoran broke the silence, glancing around the circle warily before opening his mouth.

"I would like to know why I am called here. Brother." The term of respect came after the briefest of pauses, enough to know that he considered him beneath him but still acknowledged him as one of status. Beside him, Tihomir did not nod, but looked decidedly approving, sending Eshkhan a probing glance from the corner of his eye.

Eshkhan mentally slapped himself for getting off topic, before stepping forward slowly. "Of course, brother. Now, I'm sure you are all aware of the situation in Britain..."

At the end of the tale, Maryla snorted. Loudly. It sounded like cloth ripping. Then, she began to laugh softly. The annoyed looks of the other Heads only seemed to encourage her.

Cezar's well-aged face was expressionless as he reached into his coat and produced an expensive cigar and matchbox. "So the Dark Lord is truly back?" He queried, striking a match against the side of the box, sending shadows dancing even with the small flame in the poorly illuminated room. He paused as he lit the cigar, puffing it a few times before removing it. "With your own eyes, you have seen him?"

"Of course!" Eshkhan amended his overly hot tone. "I do not make deals without seeing who I deal with. I am no fool."

Maryla's cackles grew in pitch and volume for a moment. She looked as if she was actually having some trouble breathing.

Tihomir slowly crossed his arms, his gaze calculating. "And the Dark Lord...you 'deal' with him, as you say?" His voice had a hard edge to it.

"He offers good money," Eshkhan said, perhaps a tad defensive.

"And good lies." Zoran retorted. "What has he promised you? Land, power, recognition? A great fool are you if think he will come through with these."

"It is none of your concern!" Eshkhan exclaimed angrily. "I can take care of my own Family, you tend to your own!"

Zoran's eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. "You will correct your mouth, boy-" He hissed venomously. "-or I will correct it for you! And perhaps I will pay a visit to the rest of your little cowardly Family-"

"Enough!" All heads snapped to the voice's origin, which, oddly enough, was not Cezar, but Maryla.

Her face was still twisted into a darkly mirthful expression, but her tone was airy. "Enough of this. I am leaving. This little party has been fun, but it's wasted enough of my time. Brothers-" She inclined her head to all but Eshkhan. "-enjoy your evening."

Eshkhan was struck speechless for a few seconds, as Maryla moved towards the door. He regained his voice around the time she put her hand on the handle. "You cannot leave!" he said indignantly.

Maryla paused to raise a crimson eyebrow. "Oh? Why not, little boy? Are you going to stop me?" It was obvious that she very much doubted in his ability to do so, let alone his willingness to try.

Eshkhan willed himself into a cooler tone. This Meeting was not going as he had hoped. "I have presented evidence of a threat to our race. Irrefutable proof that there is a true male veela still walking around! Leaving now-" He said, as icily as possible. "-would be treason, punishable by immediate death."

Maryla smirked, showing a bit of teeth. "Evidence? Irrefutable proof? Ha! A couple of boo-boos on your big bad hunter, and his word? Truly, there can be no mistake! Immediate death, you say? Oh no!" She gasped theatrically. Her face settled back in an instant to its cool, uncaring mask. "I am leaving." she repeated coldly. Maryla spread her arms challengingly to the rest of the vampires present. "Any who would try and stop me, do so now!"

Eshkhan looked at the others, searching for support. Cezar sent him one brief unreadable look, before directing his gaze at the Twins. Zoran and Tihomir were in silent debate, exchanging some strange rapid hand signs that Eshkhan knew was not normal sign language.

"Hm. As I thought." The Polish Head tossed her head dismissively as she opened the door. As soon as the door slammed shut, he could hear her footsteps no more.

The Twins ceased their wordless argument. They had made a decision, apparently.

They stood side by side, both faces dark, not a good sign. Eshkhan steeled himself for the answer he knew was coming when Zoran's chin rose slightly.

"We have decided that this evidence, it is incomplete and irrelevant. Thirteen years ago, we made a vow." He said flatly. "No more Dark Lords. We refuse to be the tool of an oath breaker and craven liar like Voldemort. As such, we will not aid you in carrying out his goals, especially not under lies. We are no fools."

Eshkhan let out a slow breath. Resentment and frustration bubbled, just below the surface. He glared. "I am not a lapdog," he spat.

Zoran's eyes were unsympathetic. "It does not matter what you are. Voldemort is a parasite. If you stay close to him, and he will suck you dry eventually, and then he will toss the drained husk aside." He nodded to Cezar. "Brother." He murmured respectfully, before leaving the room via the same path that Maryla had taken, with Tihomir close on his heels.

Defeated and put out, Eshkhan turned to Cezar, who was staring after the door the Twins had left through. He sighed, ground out his cigar on the blood soaked iron of the bowl, and tucked it inside his coat.

"I knew your father, Eshkhan." Cezar announced suddenly, as if it were something that had just then occurred to him. "He was a good man, if...idealistic to fault."

"Thank you, brother." Eshkhan said, truly appreciative, knowing that it was the best thing that he would likely hear about his father from a vampire outside the Kenderian Family. His late father was well-known and widely disliked for his ways.

"Your father, in all the time I knew him, never lied to me. Never." The older vampire gazed straight into the eyes of the younger. "I am sure he raised you on the same ideals. I do not believe you are lying to me. I will help you hunt down this...last incubus, as you say."

"Thank you, brother!" Eshkhan had to fight back a smile of excitement, but Cezar held up a hand.

"But." The word was stone serious. "You must be willing to become subordinate in this affair, at least to me."

Eshkhan drew in a deep breath. He had been hoping for more, but been willing to settle for much less. And it also made sense. Cezar's Family was much larger, had access to more resources, and altogether more powerful than his, as much as it galled him. "Of course, brother," the Armenian Head acquiesced after the brief pause it took for all these things to run through his mind.

Cezar's weathered face broke into an easy smile. He clapped a hand onto Eshkhan's shoulder amiably. "This makes for good hearing. I will contact you once I inform my kinsmen, and then we may begin the movement of our forces to Britain's borders. There, you may arrange a meeting between us and your employer." His sudden grin had an almost predatory twist to it. "After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, no?"

Fleur glanced back as she crested the hill to the Shrieking Shack. The village of Hogsmeade was a fair distance away, even if she could not see its buildings in the dark of the falling twilight. The dwelling was well-avoided because of the rumors. Fleur supposed this would be a relatively safe place to meet.

The house, however, was a complete ruin, peeling paint and shattered windows, torn boards revealing small portions of the interior. Fleur was honestly surprised that her grandmother's lofty veela had consented to such living conditions.

Fleur pushed open the door, and lowered the hood of the dark cloak she had worn for secrecy's sake. It would not be a good thing if she was mistaken for an enemy, not against these women.

The interior of the shack was just as she had expected; the furniture was dusty and rotting, the paint just as faded and degraded on the inside as it was on the out. However, the veela leaning against the side of the staircase upwards to the second floor seemed very out of place.

Claire wore the same sour expression she always did, but somehow it seemed even more disgruntled now. She jerked a thumb up the staircase. "Collete's waiting upstairs. Come on." The stairs creaked alarmingly under even their light weight as they ascended. "What took you so damned long?"

Fleur took the snapping tone without any complaint. She was used to it. "Ze Madam is-" She got no farther, as Claire snorted disgustedly.

"You're not in that school anymore. Use French like a proper woman should. Or has it been so long that it has fallen from your tongue?"

Fleur shot a glare at her back. "Madam Pomfrey is very demanding, and a career as a Medi-Witch is only one I studied briefly. Catching up on the lost material while trying to avoid suspicion from her and Albus Dumbledore is not an easy task."

"I'm so sorry-" Claire said sarcastically. "-but you seem to have mistaken me for someone who gives a flying fuck. We do not care how you do it, but you will do it."

Fleur shut her mouth before a retort could fly out of it. She couldn't say she was surprised, honestly.

Claire stopped by a door in the upper hall. Fleur, interpreting this as the go ahead, went in.

The room obviously had been a living room, once. It was a bit of a jarring scene, however, since the veela had moved in, the drab grey of the fading furniture and walls being almost drowned out by the fresh white cots that had been dragged in or bought, and the many instruments strewn across the tables that had been moved in. Fleur could identify a few ñ a Foe-Glass, a premier grade Sneakoscope, dozens of potions and vials, and was that a pile of Invisibility Cloaks? ñ but still more eluded her knowledge, strange paraphernalia whose purpose she could not discern.

A brief snippet drifted back to her from her school advisor, when she had been looking at Cursebreaking as a career path. Many premier Cursebreakers had their own personal enchanted objects, or paid for innocuous-looking objects to be enchanted to unusual specifications. Fleur would bet that every one of the strange objects ñ the monocle, the strange eyeglasses with many lenses, the bizarre golden horn, the tray full of jewelry ñ each had their own purpose.

The wide fireplace did not harbor any fore, for the obvious reason of preserving secrecy. If smoke was seen billowing out of chimney that hadn't seen use in over fifty years, people might wonder.

Colette seemed to draw the eye without effort, as if she were the natural center of the room. Fleur's eyes were tugged along her golden hair and down her side as she rose fluidly from the worn chair, turning to face her, giving her carte blanche to take in the full visage of perfection and majesty that was...

Fleur recognized the sensation and instantly brought up her aura in a shield around her mind, to stave off the thoughts. The helpless longing and superlatives receded from her thoughts, leaving only shame and anger.

"Don't do that!" Fleur said angrily.

One of the captain's eyebrows rose in a perfect expression of detached curiosity. "Do what? And watch your tone, or I'll be forced to teach you your place."

She stalked to a table that occupied the center of the room, covered with a map spread nailed to the wooden surface at the four corners. Colette beckoned with one hand, and Fleur joined her. It was a hand-drawn map of Hogwarts, roughly rendered with many arrows and circles around various passageways and each possible destination for the moving staircases. "Give me an update on our target."

Fleur felt a pang of uneasiness and guilt, but buried it with the ease of long practice. "Recovering, in the Hospital Wing. He survived an assassination attempt. The attackers were vampires armed with poisoned blades. He's currently flushing out the venom."

Colette's full lips had been steadily tightening. She looked ready to bite through a perfectly trimmed nail. "Fucking pasty-skinned bastards." The vulgarity sounded distinctly foreign coming out of such a beautiful face. "I wonder which of the Families was foolish enough to consort with the Dark Lord, especially after the last time." The captain seemed to ponder this a moment, before letting it go. "It matters not. They'll get their due. Continue. How soon can we get to him?"

"Not for a while." Fleur answered reluctantly, wisely refraining from pointing out that her grandmother, Colette's Mistress, had 'consorted' with Voldemort not too long ago. She knew the woman well enough to not underestimate her devotion. "It'll be weeks before he is up and about again. He won't be well enough to make a trip, even only down here, until the school year starts."

Colette's lip curled even further. "That many more eyes wandering around...damn it. Very well." The full-blooded veela pointed a finger at her. "You are under my command. From here on, you will follow my orders to the letter. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Fleur muttered submissively, feeling more shame coil in her gut. It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter.

"Good." From the way she said it, Colette obviously hadn't ever doubted the answer. "Get in close with the boy. Befriend him, beguile him." Briefly, she looked Fleur up and down. "Flirt with him, if you have to. You can do that, can't you?"

Fleur's cheeks gained red splotches of anger. "Of course!" She responded defensively. Inwardly, her stomach roiled with the thought of it, of the sheer hypocrisy of the prospect, especially given what she had spoken to him not six hours past.

Colette gave her the same look as before, as if she were something small and insignificant and unworthy of her attention. "You are not to mention your connection to us. If the topic is brought up, deny any knowledge of or relation to us. You will be our eyes and ears in the school..."

Fleur listened, watched, and most of all, obeyed. She forced her stomach to stillness and tried to subdue her conscience, as she helped devise the perfect way the deceive to the Boy-Who-Lived. She held within her a hope, a single hope.

That she could perhaps live with herself after this affair was done with.


	9. Chapter 9

"Harry!"

It had been a long couple of weeks, waiting for his wounds to close and the poison to be thinned out. It would have been insufferable without Fleur for company and the single Underhill book she had scrounged up from the Library.

Fleur really hadn't been kidding. Although he hadn't been able to try any of the charms due to the fact that he wasn't allowed to use magic while he was healing, their descriptions and history struck him as vicious and inhumane. He eagerly wanted to master some of them as soon as he found the time.

Harry held back a wince as the eager witch dropped her luggage and threw her arms tightly around him, feeling his chest twinge slightly. He was still slightly stiff from being confined to a bed so long, and although the wounds were now all white scar tissue, they still were a tad sensitive.

"It's good to see you too, Hermione," Harry grunted out. "You know what else is good? Breathing!"

She released him. "I'm sorry I didn't owl you, but Dumbledore said we couldn't send messages from the safe house, said that too many owls would attract attention." Harry opened his mouth, and Hermione beat him to the punch. "I can't tell you where it is; it's under Fidelius." He promptly shut it again.

"It's alright." Harry answered after a moment, feeling some of the frustration at complete isolation rise up before he buried it. He didn't want to bicker so soon upon their reunion. He peered around the bushy haired girl, to where the Hogwarts Express was unloading, dozens of students dragging their belongings off, some he recognized, most he didn't. "Where's Ron?"

"Oh, that reminds me! Harry, we're Prefects!" She announced brightly, a hand diving into her robe to produce a shining silver badge with a large 'P' on it. "We got them this summer. Mrs. Weasley was thrilled; she bought Ron a new broom, you'll be hearing about that soon, he won't bloody shut up about it-" Harry grinned. That did sound like Ron. Briefly, Harry felt a twinge of guilt, and resolved to get Ron a gift too. He still had plenty of Tri-Wizard money to spend. "Ron's just finishing up patrol, he'll be-wait, there he is!" Hermione said quickly, before raising her voice. "Ron! Over here!"

Harry followed her gaze to one of the exits of the Express at the far end. It was easy to pick up the shock of orange-red bobbing among the crowd, even above in some cases. Ron had gotten taller.

As this occurred to him, he stole a brief glance at Hermione. Now that he took the time to appreciate it, she had grown taller as well. Much more noticeable, however, were the curves that were starting to develope, signs of her body blooming into full maturity.

Harry mentally slapped himself. It's Hermione, you idiot. She's your best friend, you can catch a perv elsewhere! He berated fiercely.

Ron grinned as he halted his trunk, and exchanged a brief one-armed hug. "Hey, Harry, Dumbledore told us you were cooped up here all summer. Must have sucked to be you, mate, I gotta say."

"Ron!" Hermione admonished, frowning.

"It did get pretty dull." Harry admitted.

"Harry..." She started lowly, a tone of righteous indignation to her voice he rarely heard unless talking about learning. "Students usually don't get to stay at Hogwarts outside of the school year, think of all the possibilities of having it all to yourself! Don't tell me you wasted that!"

"Well..." Harry said, deliberately slowly, before laughing as Hermione swelled for the explosion. "I'm kidding, Hermione. I did a bit of reading here and there, found some pretty useful stuff." He rubbed his hands together, feeling the chill more acutely. The days were getting colder as the year progressed. "You want to get back to the castle, now? Fifth years have carriages, they're over that way." Harry jerked his head in the direction he indicated.

"Sure." She nodded. There was definitely a fire in her eyes now, as she pulled her trunk towards where Harry could see the other student of his age heading. She cocked her head thoughtfully when she noticed the lack of horses to pull them.

Ron sidled up beside him. "Hey, what do you think Hermione would do for a whole summer with the Library all to herself?" he asked, smirking.

"She'd probably murder a house elf for that kind of chance," Harry thought aloud, chuckling.

Ron's own laughter sounded forced. He quieted down after a moment. "...er, Harry, I've been meaning to ask...why did you get sent to Hogwarts in the first place? Hermione's been so worried, she hardly studied at all."

...Curiosity KILLS THE CAT, Harry...

His green eyes dulled and went cold, the cheery mood killed like a flame doused with water at the crooning sound of the Voice, as he had reluctantly referred to it after even more reluctantly admitting that it didn't seem inclined to go away, like the goosebumps he was currently experiencing.

"I'll tell you about it in the carriage."

"You were almost assassinated!"

Harry grimaced for the second time that day as Hermione's shriek was magnified by the carriage's wooden interior. Ron sat, staring wide-eyed at Harry with a slack jaw. "Relax, Hermione, it's not a big deal, I've had people trying to kill me before I could walk. Compared to Voldemort, vampires are only a nuisance," he said soothingly, hoping to calm her hysterics.

"Bloody hell." Was all of Ron's input. His friend slowly shook his head. "Bloody hell, mate."

However, as Dumbledore had said once, Hermione seldom stopped until she had voiced her mind. It was like trying to stand in the path of an avalanche. Even after barricading its path, it still insisted on tumbling down in all its implacable fury.

"They ruddy well laid you up in the Hospital Wing for a month!" she hissed. "Morgana, Harry, you have to take this more seriously! You-Know-Who is-"

"Voldemort." Harry corrected her firmly, finding some morbid amusement in the way both of her and Ron twitched as if prodded at a simple name. A shitty anagram, actually. Harry recalled idly, remembering the diary's Tom's little light show in the Chamber of Secrets.

...the female IRKS me. Dispose of her, the Voice commanded.

Shut up. His retort carried no real fire in it since he knew it wouldn't listen. It never did.

"Voldemort-" Hermione's mouth twisted up as if she had bitten a rotten plum. "-is bad enough! Even if these vampires were nuisances in comparison, they wouldn't attack without provocation!"

"I know," Harry said, staring out the window of the carriage. The trip was no less awe-inspiring the second time, when he had ridden down to the station. "Hermione, I-"

"Wait, I know I've read something about them somewhere." She interjected. Hermione adopted a thinking pose, her chin in her palm, her elbow balanced on one knee.

"Is it that the vampires are probably connected to larger Families, who are likely to seek revenge? Because I already know that." Harry snapped, finally fed up. "I'm not an idiot, Hermione. But getting worried won't solve anything, and I doubt vampires are going to kill me in my sleep at Hogwarts, with Dumbledore there." This reunion had not gone at all the way he had planned. He'd let their attention become too focused on his troubles.

Hermione's jaw worked, but no sound came out. She shifted into the corner, crossing her arms, and sending him a slightly reproachful look. "Well excuse me if I worry when one of my best friends nearly gets killed," the witch said quietly. Nearby, Ron had settled on a wary silence, obviously not wanting to get in the middle of this.

Harry let out an explosive sigh, feeling his annoyance fade into weary regret. "No, Hermione, look, I'm sorry. I pictured our fifth year starting out better than this, and I've been stuck to a bloody hospital bed half my summer, and it's just...I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Sorry," he repeated.

Weakling, the Voice spat with disgust. They are LESSER than you, Harry...they deserve no more the concern we have for the filth upon our feet. Do not LOWER YOURSELF to these INSECTS.

Eat a dick, Harry replied promptly. It gave a wordless snarl and receded from his mind, apparently fed up with him.

Hermione's features softened, before she let her hands fall to her lap. "It's all right, Harry."

"I bet those vampires left a wicked scar. Birds dig scars, mate." Ron grinned, trying to make light of the situation.

"Ron," Hermione's admonishment was ruined by her amused smile.

"Oh, yeah." Harry replied, in somewhat better cheer considering his mind was his own for the moment. "I'd take off my shirt and show you, but I don't want to make Hermione all hot and flustered."

She flushed, mouth falling open in indignation. "You prat!" She kicked him in the shin, while Ron nearly fell over laughing.

The Golden Trio was back.

Unfortunately, the Opening Feast was not the pick-me-up Harry had anticipated.

"Merlin, can't she shut her ruddy croaker already?" Ron groaned quietly to Harry's side, who was forced to suppress a snort of amusement.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed, her eyes intent on the short, fat woman at the front of the hall, introduced as Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic, whatever that meant. This woman's supposed to teach us DADA? Harry stared at the woman, disbelieving. She looks like she's never stepped outside an office in her life! "This is important. I think the Ministry might be trying to interfere in Hogwarts." She whispered intently.

"What makes you think that?" Harry inquired curiously, sensing seriousness in her tone.

Hermione gestured a hand at Umbridge. "Just listen to her. 'May have to impede progress for progress's sake'? 'A regression to earlier methods'? It's all too carefully worded."

"You know what, Hermione? You're right!" Ron replied. "The Ministry is interfering. Specifically, interfering with my dinner." Harry cracked up, and Ron continued. "Oh, it's a devious plan they've devised, for sure, but it's all too obvious now. They've sent this toad to starve us all to death."

"Ron!" Her eyes flashed with frustration as she turned on him.

"Well, he makes a fair point, Hermione, she does share a startling resemblance to a toad," Harry observed.

"Harry! Not you too!" Harry's resolve broke and he covered his mouth with one hand to muffle the chuckles. "Ugh, I give up!" She growled. "Men!"

Umbridge finished her small speech and stepped down, returning to her seat. There was a polite, somewhat subdued applause from the professors, likely because of the way that she had interrupted Dumbledore. The students clapped too, but likely only to reach to the food they'd hitherto been deprived of faster. Harry watched the small woman's beady eyes trail over the hall full of students, perhaps lingering a second longer on him than the rest, before she returned her attention to Dumbledore, who stood up, raising his hands for silence.

"Thank you, Dolores. Now, as I was saying before..."

"Good afternoon, class!" Umbridge practically sang as she made her way into the classroom. Harry grimaced at the sugary-sweet, overly girlish tone of her voice. Chatter instantly ceased, and there were a few mumbled returns of the greeting from the students.

The squat woman paused at the edge of her desk, before turning around, an overly patient smile on her face.

"Why, wasn't that completely unsatisfactory! Let's try that again, shall we?" Her smile widened. "Good afternoon, class."

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge." Came the unanimous response, in varying degrees of enthusiasm. This seemed to satisfy her, as she trotted up to the board and waved her wand quickly at the chalk, which rose of it's own accord and began to write.

"I have looked over your past history of professors, and have noticed that your education has been rather patchy, as it were. Jumping drastically ahead in some areas, terribly incomplete in others. So I have decided that we will be returning to the basics." She gestured to the board, where 'Back to Basics : Understanding Defense' was written in large block letters. "Wands away, quills out. You may take out your copies of Slinkhard's Defensive Magical Theory and begin taking notes on Chapter 1A."

This was met with collective disgruntlement, sighs in some places, outright groans in others. Umbridge apparently chose to ignore this, simply smiling a bit more and taking a seat at her desk, pulling something from the side to work on.

Harry pulled out his own book and opened it, mentally preparing himself for a long stretch of boredom.

It took him about twenty minutes to completely lose interest. He had been expecting something like magical theory, maybe a few simple Arithmancy problems on spells, but this was even drier than that. The man didn't even write about DADA. Rather, he debated the ethics behind Defense, and the conditions under which it was acceptable to use violent magic, which were very few and in between it seemed, according to him.

It's not even a Defense text, more of a Defense philosophy! What the hell is the point of this?

Goosebumps rippled along his skin, the air around him seemingly chilling, and he suppressed a groan and palmed his face in annoyance. I don't suppose if I told you to go away, you'd listen?

The Voice ignored this. Why do you waste your time with these paltry human tricks? It inquired, sounding almost sane for a brief moment. You have my power at the merest crook of your finger, why squander your concentration on this idiocy?

Harry hesitated, before answering regardless of his qualms. If he answered, perhaps he would get some peace! I don't want to use your power. It's dangerous. When I use it I...lose control.

...Why not let ME control?

Harry's answer was immediate. Yeah, right. Not a chance.

You will REGRET THIS CHOICE, STUPID VESSEL. The Voice was not even yelling, merely growling in a dire bass far lower than most humans could manage, before it let him be. Harry tried to turn his concentration back onto his work.

He lasted about five minutes.

Unable to take it any more, Harry dropped his quill and began flipping impatiently through the book, searching for something more interesting in it, something, anything that would actually be useful he could get from this book. A spell, a counter-spell, hell, he would have settled for magical theory at this point. It took him about ten more minutes to finally close the book, mouth ajar with disbelief. There's not a single fucking spell in this book! He stared hard at the woman behind the desk.

Deciding this definitely had to be addressed, right now, he raised his hand. Ron looked at him curiously, his writing slowing to a stop. Hermione spared him one brief glance and continued to furiously scribble down notes on her already cramped parchment. He supposed this was one of the books she hadn't studied for worrying about him, like Ron had said. Harry waited about thirty seconds for Umbridge to look up from her desk, until his arm got tired and he took a leaf out of her book, clearing his throat roughly. There was no response. Rather annoyed, he opened his mouth.

"Professor?" He tried as best could to make his tone respectful.

"Hmm? Oh, Mr. Potter. You can wait ten minutes until the end of class to use the loo, can't you?" Harry felt his annoyance rise at the patronizing tone.

"No, Professor, it's not that. You see, I finished with the chapter, so I decided to take a look ahead." The lie came easily; after all, if she asked him, there were a few points from the first chapter he could recall, vaguely. "I think there's a mistake."

"A mistake? Oh, dear, Mr. Potter, that is the problem with picking up books secondhand." There was a snort from the other side of the room, probably Malfoy. "There are a few extras in the back of room. Take what you need."

"No, there's not a problem with my copy. There's a problem with the book. Professor, there's no spells in here."

That instantly got everyone's attention. The scratch of quills disappeared, replaced by the shifting of seats as the students all looked at Umbridge, confusion and disbelief written across every face.

"What are you looking at? Continue taking notes." The fat woman said quickly, a bit snappishly. The students slowly obeyed, but if every one of them wasn't still listening, then Harry would eat his own wand. Umbridge turned back to him, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "There is no mistake. Since you have completed the assigned chapter, you may begin on the next. I will expect an essay on both tomorrow, a foot long, understand?" Harry stiffened as a chill entered the air, and he felt the invisible, incorporeal presence of the Voice take up residence, just beyond view, so close that he almost believed he would find it lurking behind him if he turned around quickly enough. He forced himself to ignore it, and went on.

"You're not going to teach us any spells? This is Defense Against the Dark Arts; how do we defend ourselves without anything to defend with?" His voice had risen a bit in agitation, and a few students had stopped completely, watching the exchange with the quills still poised on the paper. Ron was frowning at Umbridge, and Hermione had taken her own book and was madly flipping through it, biting her lip more and more.

"Defend yourself? Against what, Mr. Potter? In this classroom, there is no danger, and outside, you have the Ministry to protect you." She gave a coy little laugh that made Harry's blood boil. He rose from his seat with a rattle of wood. The toad-like woman stiffened, and her beady eyes flashed with brief malevolence. "Sit down, Mr. Potter."

...she mocks us, mocks us, mocks US, HARRY! the Voice suddenly screamed. She serves us a happy lie onto all our ears. SWALLOW IT NOT, NEVER ACCEPT IT.

I won't. Harry agreed grimly, too angry at the woman before him to summon the will to argue with the intrusion nestled comfortably in his mind. Somethings warranted agreement regardless of who one conversed with.

"What about the Dark Arts, maybe!" he waved his hand angrily as he spoke. "Vampires, werewolves, magical creatures? Dark wizards?" At this point, there wasn't a single student pretending not to listen. Umbridge seemed not to notice, drawing herself up to her full height, which was not much.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor for disobedience." Rather than chastising him, this only flung fuel onto the growing pyre of Harry's rage. "Dark wizards? Are there any in particular you would be referring to, Mr. Potter?" she asked sweetly.

Later he would look back on this moment and realize Umbridge was simply baiting him, and also that he could have likely won this argument if he had went back to his other points, which she had rather blatantly ignored. But now, there was only one answer to what she was asking, and Harry let it fly.

-!

"How about Voldemort, huh!" he shouted. The entire class flinched, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil in the back even letting out tiny shrieks. "He's tall, pale skinned, red-eyed, and has a face like a fucking snake, any of that ring a bell!"

The woman's wide face split into a smile of grim satisfaction, like a rotten melon splitting in two. "Detention, Mr. Potter. And thirty more points from Gryffindor." She picked up a scrap of paper from her desk and scribbled something quickly on it. "You will take this to Professor McGonagall." She ordered him, triumph dancing in her eyes.

Such arrogance WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!...show her now her place, Harry. NOW is the TIME!

No. No, no, no. Harry took a deep breath, willing back the powerful urge to explode in violence he was currently experiencing. Dumbledore. I promised Dumbledore, control my anger. Control. She doesn't deserve to get hurt, not yet. He allowed himself a small burst of perverse pleasure in knowing that he could hurt the woman if he wanted to. After vampires and Voldemort, after all, she was a flyspeck compared to him.

Coward. WEAKLING! the Voice snarled venomously.

Harry picked up his things and snatched the note irritably out of her hand, he turned and stalked towards the door, taking deep, shaky breaths. He noticed his hand trembling, and quickly checked the motion.

As he left, he could dimly hear Umbridge addressing the class.

"Some of you...heard...certain Dark Lord...back. This is a lie." The last part was louder than the rest, and came through quite clear.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks. The note crumpled in his fist.

...and now?

"Now she does," Harry hissed.

Her reaction, to the contrary of what he had expected, was not to explode or yell, as she had been known to do when vexed in class.

Very calmly, the Deputy-Headmistress lifted her reading glasses off of her nose, and set them on her desk along with the note. She then let out a deep, weary sigh and intertwined her fingers in her lap, and fixed him with a steady, sorrowful look.

"Mr. Potter, are you well? Getting enough rest, eating well?" McGonagall asked softly.

Harry blinked in confusion. "Um, yes Professor." He said slowly.

"Keeping your spirits up?" She persisted.

"Yes, Professor." Harry repeated dutifully.

"That is good." The normally strict witch smoothed her skirts, and leaned back. She reached out and tapped the note. "She says that you were insubordinate, used excessive profanity, invoked You-Know-Who's name several times, yelled at her, called her a liar, and then you lit a text book on fire and threw it at her."

"I...wasn't aiming at her." He mumbled, his gaze straying downwards, the events of the classroom flashing by in his mind. Himself storming back in. Ranting, yelling accusations, insults...lots of pointed fingers. Wide eyes everywhere. Fire. "I made sure to throw it wide. I'm sorry, I was just angry, and..." Harry trailed off, unable to finish.

"She has demanded you be expelled."

Instantly, Harry was on his feet, alarm screaming in his ears. "Expel? Professor McGonagall, I-!"

"Mr. Potter, you are not going to be expelled. Sit."

Relief flooded through his system, and he plopped back down in the hardwood chair. He let out a deep breath. "I can explain, Professor, I-"

"There's no need for that, Mr. Potter." She interrupted gently.

Gently. McGonagall? For the second time, his mind reeled from the unnaturalness. It took him a second to get the words together. "Really?"

"No." She said shortly. "Understand, though, there will be repercussions. You will face some punishment, likely a great deal."

Harry swallowed and nodded. He took a breath that he couldn't stop from shaking. "I understand completely, Professor McGonagall, really. Detentions, lines, double homework, anything, but I just can't get expelled, I really can't."

"You will not be, Mr. Potter. I will see to it personally." Her voice was firm, and Harry could detect a hint of the steely tone she usually used. "I have a request, though, Mr. Potter."

Only a request? Not a command? He thought, bewildered by this entire strange conversation. "Anything, Professor." Harry responded quickly.

"I would like you to see Poppy, when you have some free time."

"Madam Pomfrey? Why?" He didn't feel sick or hurt in any manner. At worst, he was a bit shaky from coming off the adrenaline all that anger had given him before, and was slightly queasy from all the dread he had felt while making his way towards McGonagall's classroom.

"I want you to attend some weekly therapy sessions with her." The tone of McGonagall's voice was oddly reassuring, as if she were trying to coax him into it.

"Therapy?" Harry said, as if the very word tasted strange to him. He frowned. "Professor, I'm not sick, I'm not crazy, I'm-"

"I do not believe you are crazy, Mr. Potter." She said soothingly. "It will just be an hour or two, at the end of the evening. It's nothing out of the ordinary, just a place to relieve stress by talking to someone who will listen without prejudice. I occasionally spend an evening with her, after a particularly trying week."

Harry still felt dubious, but since this was the woman preventing his expulsion..."If you say so, Professor." He picked up his bags. "I think I'd better get going, I'm late for..." Harry briefly checked his new schedule, and grimaced, his eyes narrowing. "...Potions."

"Actually, Mr. Potter..." Harry turned back to her. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"

He truly could not hide his surprise now. Harry was utterly gobsmacked. What in all hell...? "Really?" He couldn't even summon an eager tone, he was so taken aback. He couldn't have kept back his next question if he wanted to. "Why?"

McGonagall gave him some shadow of a severe look, before it morphed into a dry smile. "Mr. Potter, have you ever heard the expression, 'Do not look a gift horse in the mouth'?" She made a shooing gesture with her hands. "Go on, enjoy your freedom from the Hospital Wing. Before I change my mind. Just so you know, I expect you to get your homework from Ms. Granger or Mr. Weasley, and have your homework, too."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry said quickly, before heeding her advice and making a swift escape.

Minerva waited until the boy was quite gone, before her smile evaporated like a solitary droplet of water in an ocean of fiendfyre. She touched the note again (disgusting, pink frilly thing it was), and her hand trembled slightly, before curling into a tight fist.

"Damn it, Albus," McGonagall growled.

Harry sat in the common room, replaying the events that had unfolded in the classroom.

He had gotten angry, yes, that was a given...but as he looked back, he couldn't understand his own reasoning. How the hell could I be so stupid? He wasn't referring to the yelling and vulgarity, he was sure he was going to do that, anyway. But light the book on fire? With the veela fire, no less, what if someone noticed the difference?

Harry himself was so surprised at it happening, he had dropped the book. It was the book alighting that had shocked him out of his anger. He had not meant to do that, not even thought of doing that. He hadn't willed the fire to appear, but it had happened none the less. Impulse had made a mockery of his reason, and completely slipped past his self-control.

Unless, it wasn't his impulse.

He bolted upright. Was that you who did that? His eyes were hard with suspicion. There was a brief pause, before the familiar cold prickling sensation enveloped him.

...a demonstration was needed. She needed to LEARN her PLACE,the Voice growled. Do you think she will challenge you ever again, knowing now of our STRENGTH?

Harry mentally exploded. You manipulated my body, my powers! Could it actually accomplish that? The uncertainty sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the Voice. What the-!

YOUR POWERS! It screeched, drowning out all thought. Make NO mistake Harry...I gave you a GIFT...and I can TAKE IT AWAY!

Like hell you can! This is MY body, MY powers! There was a rasp of fabric as Harry clenched the arms of the chair tightly. He stared deep into the flame of the common room fire. Stop me, then. He challenged, holding out a hand, and concentrating. There was more than enough anger available for him to use.

Black skin spread across his fingers as he prepared to snap, and suddenly he encountered resistance. His digits refused to obey his commands, jerking like they had a mind of their own. The fact that the Voice could manage even that much caused a flicker of fear in Harry's heart. He used the energy the fear gave him, and, willing as hard as he could, snapped his fingers.

Instantly, merry red flame burst into life, and Harry smiled grimly as he heard the Voice roaring in outrage, the previous resistance in his fingers vanished. No one controls my body but me. Harry smirked in satisfaction. Not you, not anyone. Not ever.

Strangely enough, the anger of the presence disappeared like a summer rain, replaced by amusement and laughter. No, not amusement. Hysterics. The Voice laughed like it had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

You...you FOOL! YOUR body, YOUR powers? It broke off into another bout of insane laughter, a sound that made hairs rise on the back of Harry's neck. Harry...we are ONE. You are yours today, perhaps tomorrow, but CONSTANT VIGILANCE is a myth. One day you will falter, and then you will be OURS.

Yeah? Get ready for a long wait. He retorted.

We are Then, Now and ALWAYS, human. The Voice laughed. We have defeated TIME ITSELF. To us, your life passes in a second, and your submission will come to us like the blink of an eye. ONE DAY, Harry...ONE DAY YOU WILL-!

Harry, not knowing quite how he did it, pushed the presence down. The chill did not disappear completely, but it lessened, and the volume hysterical ranting of the Voice plummeted. It became little more than a buzz, like a large bumblebee trapped in a vase bouncing harmless off its contours. Now you shut up. He thought triumphantly. And after a while, it did, the warmth of the room returning completely, leaving him eerily alone in the room save for the crackling fire.

I'm not going to sit here and brood,Harry decided, throwing himself out of the chair, and out of the Gryffindor Common Room. I've got work to do. Deep inside him, something murmured in disgruntlement.

"He must be expelled!" Dolores said firmly. Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak before he was cut off by the other witch in the room. Curiously, she was afraid, and rather uneasy, both things which he picked up from body language.

Well, body language, and a passive Legimency scan. But really, it was mostly the body language. Not afraid of me, no...but of Harry? Interesting.

"For what, Dolores? If we expelled a student every time they had a meltdown, Hogwarts would be empty!" Minerva was in full stride, chin high and eyes sharp enough stop a bull troll in its tracks. Unsurprisingly, there was fierceness, determination, but...A hint of softness? A soft emotion. Soft...soft, hmm...Dumbledore rubbed his chin with one finger, trying to remember the particular emotion.

The portraits on the wall of Dumbledore's office watched the exchange with interest, save for Phineas, who was absent, as he had requested the former Headmaster to monitor Sirius. The man had been getting a bit stir-crazy. I shouldn't have allowed him to accompany me to the Riddle Manor. The small taste of adventure had whetted the former Maruader's taste, increasing his nagging to be let out ten fold.

"A meltdown? He threatened me, attacked me, a Professor!" The squat woman made it sound as though Harry had pissed in the Vatican's holy water. A sharp increase in fear...recalling the memory. She actually felt threatened. For her life, even. "We cannot allow such an obviously deranged and unstable student to continue living here. He's a danger to all those around him."

"Now, I believe-" Dumbledore began calmly, only to be interrupted once more.

"Attack you? Please!" Minerva barked a short laugh. "He set a book on fire. Accidental magic is common at their age, especially in cases of extreme emotion. I once had a student who got frustrated and accidentally sent a chandelier crashing down on my classroom. Did we expel him? No! Because it wasn't his fault." The last words were driven home like railroad spikes. Aha! Dumbledore thought triumphantly. I have it. Protectiveness. Who would have thought Minerva for the mothering type? "There are plenty of other cases I can cite, would you like to hear them?"

The Senior Undersecretary opened her mouth, before closing it grudgingly closing it, conceding the point. Lingering uneasiness. Obsessive paranoia. She actually thinks young Harry will come after her. Dumbledore noted. Still she persisted. "Accidental magic does not cover his breach in decorum, Minerva! Some of the things he said to me, some of the accusations he made, were absolutely vulgar! There must be a just punishment for this!"

Both of the witches jumped slightly as an explosive crack like a shotgun echoed through the room. Dumbledore raised one eyebrow at them, replacing his wand in his robes. He had been getting quite annoyed being ignored in his own office, especially by two women who should knew better, despite how much interesting information he was gleaning. Dolores, I am not surprised at, but Minerva?

"I am sure that a suitable punishment can be arranged for Mr. Potter." Dumbledore said smoothly. "This punishment, however, will not be expulsion. Harry is one of our finest and brightest students here at Hogwarts, and she would be loathe to lose him. Will that be all, Dolores?" He allowed a mild smile to slip through onto his features.

The toad-like woman's face began reddening in a way Dumbledore had not seen since Vernon Dursley. I would suppose that is a no. He thought dryly, folding his hands and sending Minerva a subtle look of reproach, which she acknowledged. She stepped down. She knew he could handle an unruly teacher with as much ease as he could an unruly student.

"No, it most certainly will not be!" The woman's many ugly rings glinted as she pointed her finger at him quite rudely. "That boy is a dangerous miscreant and cannot be allowed to endanger the student body! He simply must be expelled!" Her girlish voice had an especially grating edge to it.

Dumbledore only smiled slightly wider, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Fortunately, Dolores, you do not have the authority to expel students." He let his gaze drop deliberately to the desk in front of him, pulling a random paper from the pile at the corner to look at. Perhaps a tad too blunt of a dismissal? But then, she was rather getting on his nerves. "This matter is closed. You may leave," the Headmaster deadpanned.

"This isn't over, Dumbledore! If need be, I'll take this to the Minister!" she shrilled angrily.

Any good humor vanished from the ancient wizard's face, and he rose from his chair in one sinuous movement. Carefully, he let a little of his power bleed through, enhancing the intimidation factor as his voice seemed to boom from every stone in the office.

"Cornelius has no power to expel students of this school." He did not raise his voice in the least, yet the woman still went pale white and flattened herself against one of the bookcases. "I have informed him of this many, many times. I do not appreciate insubordination in my faculty, Dolores, and you would do well to take heed of this fact. You are dismissed."

She certainly did not need to be told twice, throwing open the door of his office and fleeing, heedless of dignity. Minerva sighed as the door slammed shut.

"She'll raise more trouble once she calms down, you know," the Deputy-Headmistress informed him tartly, her arms crossed irritably across her chest. Dumbledore merely nodded and took his seat again, delicately placing his reading glasses on his crooked nose.

"How much of her story was true?" he inquired, his eyes focused on the paper.

"Most of it. But I've talked with Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger." Minerva added. "They both agree that she was provoking him. I wouldn't put it past her. She's the Minister's servant, through and through, and Harry is the number one threat to his reign, besides you. They'll take anything they can get against him."

Dumbledore paused in his work, frowning before looking upward. Nearby, Fawkes crooned a soft note, preening his feathers carefully.

"What color were the flames?" He asked suddenly. Minerva was taken off guard, blinking in surprise.

"I-I'm not sure. Why? Is it important?"

"Perhaps..." Slowly, the legendary wizard stroked his beard. Petunia Dursley had been killed by some sort of Dark Magic flame, inside her skull. Harry had supposedly lit a book on fire completely wandlessly. It was a weak connection, but it was all he had. Someone is feeding Harry Dark Magic. But who? The portraits reported no suspicious visits during the summer, yet the Hospital Wing had reeked of Dark Magic the entire time he was there. If he could identify the Dark Magic being used, it could allow him to trace it back to its origin, and cut it off. "If you could inspire Mr. Weasley or Ms. Granger to donate a memory of the event, it would be most helpful."

"Very well." Strangely enough, she did not go to perform this task immediately, like usual. He took notice of the anomaly. "Albus, I've signed the boy up for therapy sessions, but I fear that may not be enough." There was a clear worrying tone to her voice, enough out of place to make the Headmaster sit up and take notice. "I think he's circling the drain. All this violence, the Tournament last year, the assassination attempt, You-Know-Who-"

"Fear of a name, Minerva." Dumbledore reminded her softly. She most uncharacteristically ignored this.

"-it's too much. He's being pushed too hard from every direction, Albus, and I fear it's only a matter of time until he breaks. He's already losing control, as demonstrated by his aunt's death and his eruption in the DADA classroom. I fear if Dolores had pushed him any harder, he may-!"

"You need not worry, Minerva." He assured her in a benevolent tone. "I have complete faith in Harry's ability to bear the weight of his responsibilities."

"How! He's just a boy, Albus, no matter how much he has accomplished! Just a boy who wants to - to- have a snowball fight, shirk homework, ogle girls with his friends!" She threw up her hands. "How is a boy supposed to deal with people trying to kill them at every turn?"

"He is not a simple boy. He is the Boy-Who-Lived, our Chosen One," he replied solemnly. The ancient wizard had heard this same argument from her many times, and always responded the same. Usually, it lead to her stalking off in a great deal of frustration. "He will make it through." Dumbledore said it like a simple statement of fact. Because if he does not, all hope is lost.

It greatly alarmed him when she simply sighed wearily, looking older then she ever had before as she gently opened the door. "If you say so, Albus." Her eyes narrowed, her usual rancor coming back full force. "It won't be on my head when he snaps," Minerva hissed, before slamming the door hard enough to rattle some of his instruments.

Thoughtfully, he rubbed his chin. All of this was very troubling.

Young Harry, provoked to the point of violence in a single class. At least he could comfort himself knowing that Harry's unnecessarily zealous rage over the denial of Tom's return meant that he was still firmly on the right side. But too often had he seen such raging faith consume a man until he was nothing. Dumbledore could not afford a spent savior, nor could the world.

Dolores. Given quite the fright, it seemed, though it was likely a good thing for her, what with her rather large ego. But now, she is herself a zealot, if she was not before. There will be no convincing her now that Harry is to be trusted...Fortunately, he would not need to take care of her personally. Tom's mysterious curse on the teaching position would inevitably deal with her.

And Minerva, developing personal attachments after such a long period of coldness? Such a surprise, though I suppose I should not fault her in her choice. Of course the Head of Gryffindor would choose the truest of her number to let into her stony heart.

There was one thing he was sure of, though. Harry, despite his outbreak, was still dependable. A loss of control was acceptable, given the circumstances and motivation. But if the boy started 'circling the drain'...Harry will not fall. He will not. I am sure. Dumbledore thought firmly, his mouth tight.

But it still wouldn't hurt to keep a closer eye on him. Just to be safe.

Nearby, Fawkes trilled mournfully.

"Right...reverse coned spiral, then sharp jab through...and then, crux incarquix. Hit torso, use fair caution, etcetera etcetera..." Harry mumbled, staring at the only Underhill book that Fleur had been able to find in the Library, the Restricted Section at that, titled Shattering the Prison. Most of the charms in it were defensive, but Harry didn't mind, once he saw the description of the first one, the one he was currently on. "-should be a pale yellow bolt, trailing a small amount of vapor. Okay, let's give it a whirl." He muttered.

Harry aimed his wand carefully at the large rectangular plywood board he had managed to Transfigure out of a few musty desks he found in the deserted classroom. He had carved it up into roughly the outline of a body with a few choice cutting curses. I should get a training dummy, or something. They have to have some for Aurors and such,Harry noted, raising his wand and mentally running through the steps.

His narrowed, and he twirled the tip of his wand backwards quickly, before stabbing the air forward.

"Crux Incarquix," Harry enunciated clearly.

A mocking cloud of luminescent yellow smoke and a few errant sparks puffed out of the end of his wand. He glared at it in frustration.

Mentally he ran over the steps. Backwards spiral, check, clockwise, check, correct pronunciation- He took a brief glance at the book. ñcheck. "It better not be you." Harry warned the wand ominously. It vibrated slightly. Knowing not whether that was denial, confirmation, or apology, he pointed his wand again. Quickly he spun his wand, before impaling the center of the spiral.

"Crux Incarquix!" Harry snapped.

A healthy yellow bolt blasted out of his wand, leaving a trail of pale yellow smoke behind as it soared towards the target. However, when it made contact, it splashed harmlessly against the surface. Harry frowned, perplexed. The smoke was a bit thick, but it should have done something. He quickly leaned over and scanned the paper, looking for anything he might have missed.

He found the answer in a small footnote at the bottom of the page. "'Only effective on living humanoid targets'...oh, don't tell me..." He groaned, grabbing a thick section of the book and flipping it rapidly. The pages blurred as the pages turned, but the footnote remained at the bottom of each. "God damn it." Harry growled.

I guess Malcolm really was a cruel bastard. He only designed these for use on people. Harry mused thoughtfully on how exactly he would go about practicing the spells. I can't go around cursing my classmates...house elves, maybe? Dobby probably would volunteer for it, the crazy little bugger. He smirked, before it faded as he thought of the repercussions if Hermione ever found out. She'd probably make my spleen sprout wings and fly out of my arse or something equally horrific. That girl's scary when she's hacked off, that's for sure.

Staring at the book that was now rendered almost completely useless, he reiterated his previous point.

"God damn it." Staring at the wooden outline, standing there so tauntingly undamaged, he pointed his wand and snarled. "Confringo!"

The magical ribbon of light collided with the target with a crash, ripping a fiery hole through the thin wood. Harry stared at the six inch hole in the plywood with satisfaction, before it soured. Any of the spells he knew, they could all be stopped by a simple Protego, or nullified in seconds with simple, wide range counterspells, like Finite Incantum or Ennervate. It was very frustrating to know how easily his work could be undone.

Well...maybe not all my spells. Licking his lips nervously, he stared at the target. It's not illegal. Not when it's not against a person. He mentally justified. Squaring himself and firming his resolve, and pointed his wand and...

...turned away, blinking. "What the hell am I thinking?" The flames of the slightly smoldering target flickered in the mostly dark room. The sun was setting, and he would have to go back to the Common Room soon, if he wanted to avoid the rush of students coming back from their final class. "Practicing the...ugh! Stupid." He spat, an oily coil of shame settling in his stomach.

He made a quick trek back to the Gryffindor Tower, wanting very much to avoid that deluge of students. Two students in particular, actually.

Unfortunately, it was not to be, as arrived at the Fat Lady's portrait at the same time as the first years, getting back from their last class of the day. Their level of recognition was apparent as the first one that saw him, a small mousy girl, let out a high pitched squeak before clapping her own hands over her mouth.

The rest of the firsties followed in suit, giving him a wide berth. Harry sighed, turning his attention back to the Fat Lady, who was waiting impatiently. He abruptly realized he didn't know the password.

Harry turned to the closest first year, a young boy with spectacles not unlike his old ones. "Excuse me, do you have the password?" He asked, as gently as possible.

The boy went so pale that Harry had the brief urge to stick his hand out and see if hadn't turned into a ghost. "N-n-n-no!" The lad stammered. "The p-prefect, we're w-waiting for her, sh-she said to-" There was abruptly a commotion at the end of the line, and several things clicked in Harry's mind.

"'She'?" Harry muttered softly, before swearing quietly as a bushy head of hair came around the corner.

"Stop acting up, now, I told you already, we can't go in until-" Hermione cut off rather abruptly as she saw him. "You." She breathed venomously, striding up to him with short, heated steps.

As she raised one finger and opened her mouth to begin what no doubt would be an impressive rant, Harry cut her off coldly. "You're really going to do this here? In front of all of them?" He asked skeptically, nodding towards the first years.

She shut her mouth tightly after working her jaw a moment, and snapped her gaze towards the Fat Lady. "Mimblus mimbletonia." Hermione barked, and the portrait swung open rather quickly, and the firsties piled in so fast you'd think it was the last ship off an exploding planet.

Harry made to follow, but Hermione stepped in front of him, hands on her hips. The portrait swung shut. "You're not going anywhere, Harry. What the hell were you thinking!" Her voice rose rapidly in pitch, a sign of her annoyance. To top it off, the familiar sensation of coldness, like icy breath down the back of his neck, emerged, and Harry had to fight hard not to yell out loud in simple frustration.

"Isn't it obvious? I got angry. End of story." Harry replied shortly. He tried to step around her, and was blocked. Annoyed, he turned and started down the hall away, hoping she might not follow. It was not to be, as he could hear her sharp, furious footsteps on the stone soon behind him.

"It most certainly isn't!" Hermione said angrily, her eyebrows furrowed in a sharp, disapproving v-shape. "You could be expelled, you idiot! You threatened a Professor! Burning a book, Harry? Are you insane!"

"I'm not crazy!" Harry bellowed furiously, before pulling his anger into check with a fierce exertion of will. He amended his tone somewhat. "I just lost control! Just drop it, Hermione!"

...Perhaps you should SUBDUE her, Harry...

Shut. Up.

"'Lost control'? That's your excuse? Oh, then everything is perfectly fine!" She snapped sarcastically, before regaining seriousness. "You don't just lose control, not on your first class! You're hiding something from me!"

Yes, YES WE ARE. Show her, Harry...just slip off the glasses, and then she will DROP IT...and her garments soon after...

No. Shut up.

"God, just leave it be, Hermione!" He snarled. "I'm really not in the mood for this, right now, just bloody let it go!"

"No!" She said indignantly. Hermione grabbed by his shoulder and pulled him around to face her. "You owe me some answers, Harry Potter, and I'm not leaving until you talk to me!"

DO IT.

SHUT UP!

Nerves and patience frayed over a month of near solitude and frustration, pushed to the edge by that afternoon, snapped. He tore off his glasses, and unleashed his caged aura and pent-up rage all in one.

"Leave me alone!" He roared.

The loudest silence he had ever heard followed that. It took a few seconds for the realization of what he had done to sink in. The Voice saw fit to comment.

Good work, VESSEL-now experience that which you have wrought.

"I'm sorry, Harry." Hermione said, in a terribly small voice. Her whole posture had collapsed inward from determined to cowering. She took a tiny step forward. "But let me make it up to you. I've-you see, I've had t-these feelings for you for the longest-"

She cut off, blinking blearily, in midsentence, as Harry stormed away, having stuffed his glasses back onto his face. Self-loathing and disgust with his actions followed him all the way up into the Common Room, only magnified as Harry forced himself to ignore the stares that followed him as he quickly ascended the steps to the fifth year male dormitory.

Feh. Sheep-livered COWARD. The cold receded from his mind, a blessing.

Harry closed the door and locked it with a quick spell, and flung himself onto his bed. He palmed his face and let out a low, angry groan. Could this day get any shittier? He spread his arms out on the bed and stared up. Harry frowned as his fingers found an unfamiliar texture. What...?

Paper. A letter, more specifically, with his name spelled out in sharp arched cursive. No return address... He peeled it open, and looked down towards where the signature would be. Almost immediately, a grin broke out on his face.

Yours, Lucienne.

Finally, he thought.


	10. Chapter 10

"How were your classes, Mr. Potter?" Harry fidgeted in the chair. It was a straight-backed, narrow thing with no armrests, impossible to find comfort in.

"Good. Well, pretty regular, actually. Professor Binns put his classes to sleep, Neville melted a hole through his cauldron with an improper amount of fire dust in his Gibbot's Elixer-" The antidote to Spattergroit, mess it up and I shall infect you with it and see how well your mixture fares. Harry idly recalled, mimicking Snape's sneering voice in his head. "-and Umbridge-"

"Professor Umbridge." Harry pointedly ignored her correction.

"-acted like I didn't exist. Literally. I had to attach my essay to Ron's before she would collect it."

"Why do you think that is, Harry?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

That was one of the rules governing their conversations, agreed to mutually. He didn't have to talk about something if he didn't want to. But she'll mark it as an issue and bring it up next time, Harry mentally finished.

It had been over three weeks since his eruption in the DADA classroom. Harry stoically ignored the harsh whispers and stares not-quite-behind his back, the expected social repercussions of his loss of control. Everywhere he went, people seemed to suddenly encounter pressing matters that required their presence elsewhere.

Hermione was always a few seats away in class, a couple of steps in front or back of him in the corridors, an invisible wall separating them. She ignored him in a manner similar to Umbridge, avoiding eye contact, speaking as little as possible to answer, and leaving quickly enough to stress the line that would deem her retreat rude.

Ron stayed with him, but his closeness felt more token then genuine. There were long silences between Harry and the bloke his considered his best friend, and their few exchanges were strained. Harry had a very difficult time fighting off the persistent thought that he had essentially rewound to a time before Hogwarts, when there was only him, a dark cupboard and a world of cruelty outside of it.

"Very well. How is your life outside of class?"

Harry scowled, knowing that Madam Pomfrey could not see it with his back turned. It had been her suggestion for him to face the wall, so it would be less uncomfortable for him to be 'confronting his feelings', as she put it. What life? Harry was sorelytempted to retort.

To be fair - something which he was not particularly inclined to at the moment ñ McGonagall had warned him there would be punishment. It didn't stop the ban from Quidditch and Hogsmeade visits 'until further notice' from stinging any less. Harry would have rather had endured detentions until he grew a beard than have his two favorite pastimes taken from him.

However, Madam Pomfrey wasn't responsible for any of it and he refused to vent it on her, 'confronting his feelings' be damned.

"Fine."

There was a brief pause, as if the elderly Mediwitch were examining his terseness and seeing through it. Harry studied the lines in the stone of the wall and tried to remember when exactly this hour of therapy was over.

This mystery was solved by her next words. "That will be all, Mr. Potter." Harry rose from his chair, stretching, and turned around. He blinked, a new entrant to the room catching by surprise.

"Fleur?" It just slipped out, before confusion and slight anger took over. "I thought you said these were private." Harry said, a bit harshly, nearly glaring at Madam Pomfrey.

"Mr. Potter, don't fret yourself. Ms. Delacour is here as an observer, bound by the same confidentiality agreement that I am."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Fleur was already there to block him. "I do not speak during ze session, 'arry. I am only observing ze Madam's method. It is as if I am not even zere."

He caught her eyes, two bright sapphires staring expectantly at him. Though Harry was still reluctant and not favorable to the idea of spilling his guts to someone so close to his own age, he shut his mouth.

Dear Harry,

See? As I foretold, you arrived safe and sound from the clutches of your enemy. But I fear that I have only fulfilled half of my promise. Come to Hogsmeade, to the Shrieking Shack. Your questions can be answered there.

Yours,

Lucienne

P.S. : Do keep those glasses on. We wouldn't want any accidents to occur, would we?

Harry reread the note for what seemed like the tenth time. As he read, the edges crinkled under frustrated fingers. He had been thrilled, delighted, exultant when the letter came. Finally, fucking finally, he could ask someone about these powers. And about the damned Voice, too...

But that was before he found every effort to make it to said answers thwarted.

Normally, the ban on his movement by his Head of House wouldn't have been a problem; He owned an Invisibility Cloak, after all. But every night, every single fucking night, he muttered those magical words, solemnly swearing to be up to no good, and found Filch standing right outside the chamber room entrance. Literally, right outside. Leaving no chance for suspicion, considering there was only one student in Gryffindor with a means of invisibility and penchant for leaving at late hours.

Harry wanted to scream in frustration. He had no way of knowing whether Lucienne was even still waiting, now, nor any way of contacting her considering the lack of return address on the letter - or any knowledge beyond her first name.

Faced with frustration, annoyance, and mounting desperation, he turned to the only possible source on veela he had.

Harry was nearing the door of the Hospital Wing when he heard muffled shouting, and the sound of crashing objects. Nonplussed, he curiously moved forward to press his ear to the door, but was halted as the door burst open of its own accord. Fred and George Weasley darted out of the gap, grinning ear to ear and hastily dodging several metal bedpans that were pursuing them, swatting at them and hovering like angry hornets.

"So that's a yes for this weekend, love!" George hollered, ducking under a vicious swing from a bedpan.

"Sortez d'ici, vous des dÈbiles!" The enraged shriek was feminine and young, marking it as Fleur.

"Six sounds perfect!" Fred was struck soundly, producing a dull gong. "Ouch!" Behind him, the door shut, drowning off another shout from Fleur.

"I've got it, guys." Harry smiled despite himself, fishing his wand out of his sleeve and pointing it at the magicked bedpans. "Immobilus." The bedpans froze in midair. "Finite Incantem." They dropped to the floor with a clang.

"Many thanks, Harry," Fred said gratefully.

"No problem." Harry collected the pans off of the floor. "She seemed pretty angry," he noted.

"Only at herself." George assured him, puffing out his chest. "You see, when a Weasley man moves to court a woman-"

"-there's absolutely no way she can resist. It's our animal magnetism, you see." Fred nodded sagely. "Am I right, fabulous and handsome brother of mine?"

"Too right, my spectacular and irresistible twin."

"Wow, it seems to be working great so far." Harry smirked. He lifted the bedpans and dangled them. "Are these usually part of the Weasley courting process, or for the mating dance afterward?"

"Oh. Yes, those..." George tapped his chin. "It is quite the paradox we face," he said thoughtfully.

"No paradox here, Fred." Fred told his brother, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Why, she must have simply taken in too much of our manly musk and gone mad!"

"Aha!" George crowed. "A genius you are, George, to have deduced that."

"No more than you, Fred."

Harry chuckled. He had missed light-hearted banter like this. Harry grasped the handle of the door. "Any tips for me?"

"Bite her on the neck, it's a good way to show dominance. Do the ear if you can reach it."

"No, no, pulling the hair is much better for that."

"Hair-pulling? Fred, my brother, are you mad? That'll set her right off!"

"Nonsense. There's nothing wrong with some good old fashioned hair-pulling, birds love the classics."

"You're a loony."

"I'm loony? Well, I say, I have some things to contest about your particular methods..."

The twins' banter eventually faded to complete silence. Harry laughed softly in the quiet of the corridor, before pulling open the door and going inside.

The Hospital Wing was nearly vacant, save Madam Pomfrey, tending to Neville, who was staring in a terrified manner at the other female on the opposite side of the room, Fleur, who was changing the sheets on a bed with a decidedly stormy look on her face. Harry noted with definite alarm that her wand was out, emitting spurts of silvery sparks tinged with volcanic red every few seconds.

At the sound of the door, Fleur looked up from her work, her lips curled, before she recognized him, and her expression softened - slightly. Harry dangled the bedpans, a questioning look on his face.

"Thank you." Fleur said stiffly, accepting the bedpans and returning them to their homes.

Harry verbalized his question.

"That was quite the reaction," he said carefully, watching her expression tauten.

She tore the dirty sheets rather roughly off of the bed. "Idiots like zem come in here every day, just to bozzer me. Zey are a dime a dozen, and I am used to zis. 'Owever, last week, zey have wised up, and started coming with actual injuries." Fleur's eyes narrowed. "Self-inflicted! Wasting zeir and my time! Zose idiots actually were a bit more clever, zey cursed eachother so I couldn't dismiss zeir claims zat zey were pranked. I swear..." She didn't finish her sentence, her growl dwindling off. It was obvious from the agitated effect her accent had on her English that she was quite vexed.

"The Weasley Twins are alright guys, just a bit...er, mischevious." Harry spoke up, defending them.

"Mischievous? Oh, I will give zem mischief, those stupid, troublesome..." Her full lips tightened. "I am sorry, I am pushing my problems off on you. What was it you needed?"

"..." Harry was silent a moment. Now, actually with expectant face in front of him, his idea seemed a bit foolish. Still, he forged onwards. "Your grandmother was a veela, right?"

Fleur's shoulders rose a little. "...yes, why?"

"Did she...?" Weak. This is a stupid connection, a weak one. So what if her grandmother was a veela? It doesn't mean she knows anything. Harry floundered for what to say. ...it's my only link. Got to try. "How much do you know about veela? Personally?"

"Some," she said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

Now, what was that story I thought up...? "My grades are usually a little behind in History of Magic. I was thinking about doing an extra credit project."Harry said, giving himself a pat on the back as Fleur's tension seemed to fade.

"Oh. Well, I am not ze best person to ask about ze history of veela. I only know a leetle, since I am only a quarter veela. I only know a bit of practical knowledge, how to manage my small amount of veela magic and such. I am barely connected to zeir society." She kept her attention on her task, bundling up the sheet and tossing it into one of the laundry bags, before removing a cleaner one from under the bed. "You would have better luck in a textbook."

Harry blinked, having went searching for gold and discovered a diamond.

"The practical knowledge could be helpful too," he said quickly, almost blurting it out.

"How is practical knowledge of veela magic useful in History of Magic?"

Oops. Err... "Our usual teacher for Care of Magical Creatures ñ Hagrid, big fellow, remember him ñ is absent this year. The replacement, Professor Grubbly-Plank, is alright, but I'm not used to her teaching method. I might want to be ready for extra work if I need to." Will this hold water?

For a moment, it seemed like it wouldn't. Fleur looked at him with a sharp eye, as if he had transformed into a Hogwarts ghost and she could see right past him. But then, she cocked her head sideways, and said, "I only have ze basics, you know. You'd still probably be better off with ze book."

"I'd rather hear it straight from the source," Harry assured her.

"Fleur? Fleur, will you get-oh, blast it all." Madam Pomfrey's mutter drew both of the teenagers' attention to her, where one of the larger boils on Neville had burst, coating her smock and the floor with yellowish pus. Neville bowed his head in red-faced shame and offered something that might have been an apology. "Fleur, you had best get a lancing needle ñ and a bucket. It seems we are dealing with Eurasian Bubotuber pus. I told Pomona that breed was unnecessary, but..."

"Yes, Madam." Platinum hair slid out from where she had tucked it behind her ears as Fleur bobbed her head demurely. She shook her head quickly to clear her vision. "We shall have to finish zis conversation later, 'arry." Fleur withdrew a quill from one of her pockets and tapped it with her wand, Transfiguring it into a rather long and sharp-looking needle.

"When?"

"Fleur!" The Mediwitch's voice was waspish and harried at the same time.

"Later." Fleur hissed. A wide pail flew from the closet at the back of the room, and she scooped it up under one arm. "Ze Astronomy Tower, tonight, in a few hours. Now go!" Fleur shooed him with one hand.

And in Greece, upon the banks of the Asopus River, a celebration raged, spirits soaring ever higher as the sun sank below the horizon. Women and men beautiful beyond mortal right danced and sang. The best wine and food affordable (and no funds were spared) flowed like water, begetting cheer, excitement, and lust. Thick incense hung heavy like a smog upon the large gathering of colorful pavillions and canopies, blurring vision and inhibition in a single breath. The Great Daedala came only once every sixty years, and as such, nothing was held back.

Quickly, the man named Alkaios pushed his way through the thick crowds of his kin. He found himself touching more flesh than clothing. All around him, veela raged, nearly out of control. There was very little regulation on this day, and when the sun fell, it would vanish completely. Alkaios himself shivered slightly in anticipation. Night...night was when the festival truly began.

Many times as he slipped his way through the crowd, he found himself touched, prodded, caressed, and outright groped in ways that would be considered scandalous and improper in society. Luried offers were made, blunt invitations that would leave most civilized people reeling in shock. But as was everything on that night, it was for the simple purpose of fun and enjoyment, and Alkaios smiled politely and declined. Inwardly, he yearned to join them, but a stronger, more important purpose held his attention like a vice, and his will held like steel as he was buffeted by veela auras from all around him.

Overlooking them all stood a towering statue, tall and imposing, in the center of the vast expanse of tents, sculpted into the visage of a stern woman, clad majestically in fine cloth and wearing a high, cylindrical crown, bearing a pomegranate in one hand. Hera Argeia, the All-Mother. Alkaios kept a steady eye on it through the multicolored haze of incense.

As he neared the center, the crowds became sparser and sparser. It was unwritten, yet stronger than ink upon paper, law that the First Matriarch was not to be disturbed until the sun went down, to allow her time for quiet preparation. Alkaios only dared due to direct orders delivered from her own exalted lips, and still felt uncomfortable as he passed the large wooden podium raised before the All-Mother's statue, where her new avatar on earth would be chosen that night, the newest person to assume the title of First Matriarch of the Veela Nation, the Mother.

Inside the tent, Alkaios was surprised ñ and outraged ñ to find her not alone, but with company. Human company. His lip curled with indignation as he looked upon the man seated on one of the fine chairs, finding the newcomer's own long blond hair akin to an insult in and of itself. The expensive robes and almost undoubtedly ornamental snake-headed cane only served to further lower his opinion of the mysterious wizard.

The Mother, snow-haired and even more stunning adorned with the white and gold Robes of Passing, smiled gently at him. As always, her eyes were soft, luminescent orbs of pale white. "Alkaios." Her lilting voice was warm and inviting. "Young Lucius has decided to pay us a visit, again. Why don't you introduce yourself?"

"Milord." Alkaios bowed just a hair too short, not quite enough to meet civility. The Mother's knowing smile only widened. "I am Alkaios. I am the Mother's servant." He kept his introduction short and terse.

The wizard ñ Lucius Malfoy, now he could recognize him, after a second glance ñ only nodded quickly, dabbing at his forehead with a green handkerchief. He seemed to be sweating slightly. Alkaios briefly wondered how many potions he had to have taken in order not to go mad the minute he stepped within ten miles of the gathering.

Suddenly, Lucius's hand shifted, and Alkaios caught a flash of light upon precious stones, quite a few of them. Diamonds. Ah. So that's how he avoided temptation. The human is knowledgeable.

"I shall have the donation sent to Elisaveta then, Mother?" Alkaios wrinkled his nose at the familiar address of the Honored Second.

"My son, my son, you need not bring gold every time you come to see me." The Mother chided him gently, smiling. "I want only for your company."

"My apologies."

"You are much like your father. Of course, Abraxas became much more agreeable once he was married. Tell me, how does he like those peacocks I sent him?"

The wizard blinked, momentarily surprised. Lucius wet his lips. "He...enjoyed them, very much, Mother. There are still many left on the Manor. My father paid for the best caretakers."

"Enjoyed?" A frown momentarily appeared on the Mother's face, before it vanished. "Oh, yes. He died, did he not?"

"Yes, Mother. You attended his funeral."

"Dear me, I suppose it truly is my time to Pass. My memories are such a mess these days..." The Mother laughed softly, before her expression became regretful. "Lucius, I wish we could talk more, but the sun is nearly gone."

"But of course, Mother." The wizard nearly leapt out of his seat. It was clear he was eager to depart. "My apologies for keeping you so long. I will leave the premises immediately."

A spark of wisdom, Alkaios thought. Or perhaps survival instinct.

"Come see me, after my Passing. I would love to talk further then."

"Yes, Mother." The wizard said quickly, drawing his long fur-lined over-robes around himself on his way out the door.

"Oh ñ and Lucius." With obvious reluctance, Lucius paused in the flaps of the tent. The Mother smiled serenely at him. "Please inform your master that my allegiance is not a slot machine. You will not get lucky if you keep coming back with more Galleons. My children will take no part in a wizard's war."

Lucius's mouth instantly snapped open, perhaps to issue a reflexive denial, but whatever it may have been, Alkaios watched it die with pleasure in the human's throat as he stared into the bright glow of the Mother's eyes.

"A mother always knows, Lucius," she said quietly. Death's silence fell upon the tent. For all their innocence, the Mother's words sounded as much an ultimatum as a platitude. Abruptly, Lucius's mouth snapped shut, and he turned and stalked out of the tent. Not a second later, a crack was heard, like a ruler slammed hard upon a desktop. The wizard was gone. Alkaios released his grip on his hidden weapon.

He turned to the Mother. "Mother, I-"

A jubilant horn sounded, and in recognition of the signal shouts abruptly enlivened the camp, howls of glee and exultation that heightened until they were nearly deafening. A steady drumbeat began, pulsing like the heart of a giant, to be heard all around the camp. The Mother sighed and rose from her seat.

"You may give me your report after the ceremony, my son," she said, in a tone that allowed no room for argument. Alkaios merely nodded, the idea of complaining never crossing his mind.

Harry shivered atop the tall battlements of the Astronomy Tower. The first frost had come a few days ago, and the weather seemed to celebrate an early start to winter. He watched his breath freeze in the air, white trails of vapor, and thought that he should have asked Fleur to be more specific about the time, so he wouldn't be waiting out here like an idiot, so cold that it felt like he was going to get frostbite in his -

The door of the tower creaked loudly. Harry turned hopefully to the door. Ernie MacMillian poked his head out, and seeing the scowl of disappointment, blanched and shut the door immediately after. Harry shuffled his feet, wriggling his toes to keep them warm. Growing impatient, he cast a Warming Charm on himself, spurning the warnings about its artificial comfort.

Harry shifted restlessly.

Why was Hermione acting so distantly? Could she suspect something? Harry recalled his one brief encounter with veela aura, at the Quidditch World Cup. All he had remembered was a warm feeling, and suddenly finding himself about to jump off the rafters. She wouldn't remember anything she said. I haven't slipped up except the DADA incident, so...Harry considered ...she probably doesn't suspect me. Or at least, doesn't suspect me to be anything other than human, which is the crucial part.

More importantly, what was he going to do about Filch? He needed to get to Hogsmeade. Believing that Fleur's 'basics' might be enough to control his rampant powers was straining optimism to the point of lunacy. Why was Filch stationed outside the Common Room so often, anyway?

Engrossed in the dilemmas dominating his thoughts as he was, Harry jerked violently as a hand rested his shoulder. Fleur was standing behind him, wrapped up in a thick fur-trimmed robe, staring at him inquisitively.

"How long were you waiting? You have no color." Fleur moved her hand to his cheek, fingertips pressed gently against the skin. Harry moved back, his entire face flushing quickly. "You are like ice. Yet not shivering. Warming Charm?"

"Got it in one." Harry said, quelling a nervous laugh.

Fleur drew out her wand and poked him in the forehead. Instantly, he felt the freezing chill come back, twice as strong.

"H-hey!" He stammered, his teeth already starting to chatter.

The French witch ignored him and rapped him smartly on the top of her head with her wand, before quickly waving a circle around it. He opened his mouth to protest ñ at least Hermione made a pretense of courtesy before she bossed him around, Fleur just did it ñ before he felt a long, warm rush of heat. Curiously, he watched as color returned to his fingers.

"Ze real Warming Charm, it is a bit more complex." Fleur stowed her wand away, smiling slightly. "Perhaps you will learn it next year, when zat horrid Ministry woman is not here, non?"

"Maybe," Harry said agreeably. He reached into his robes and produced a notebook and charmed quill, making the former float with a swish and flick and a muttered incantation. As soon as the quill touched the paper, it stood vertically, as if poised by an invisible hand. "So, err-"

On the paper, the quill quickly scribbled So, err.

Fleur turned to face the lake. "Veela magic does not resemble ours in any way you would immediately recognize." Her voice was flat and emotionless, as if she was concentrating on getting this over as quickly as possible using the least amount of words. "Zere are no words, no incantations or wand movements. No magical tools at all, for zat matter. Zere is only emotion."

"...sort of like accidental magic." Harry said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He watched her subtly shift her weight, perhaps an involuntary reflex to keep herself warm. Or perhaps a sign of displeasure. I'm over-analyzing. Probably.

"Parallels can be drawn, yes, in zat both can use sudden bursts of emotions as fuel. But that is where ze similarity ends." Fleur's arms disappeared in front of her as she crossed her arms under her breasts. "Human magic is versatile, and virtually limitless in what shape it can be twisted into, what effects it can produce. With veela magic, not so much. Zere are only three branches of magic." She turned back to him. Harry wondered if she was aware of the bitter look on her face. "Floga, Soma, Parousia." Fleur's mouth twisted, as if the words tasted foul in her mouth.

"I'm sorry?"

"It is Greek. Flame, Body, Presence. Ze formal terms for our branches of magic. You know of our abilities, non?"

"I've seen a veela throw fire and...morph into a bird-ish...form." Harry winced inwardly at his own inability to properly phrase his memory. "I've also been under the aura once or twice, too. That would be the Flame, Body and Presence, in that order, right?"

"Yes." Her eyes flashed downwards briefly in ñ shame? Guilt? Some other tumultuous emotion? "As I am only a quarter veela, I know nothing of Soma, seeing as I am unable to assume the true form. I apologize."

"Don't worry about it." Harry said reassuringly, sensing issues that the former champion did not want pressed. Some kind of stigma attached? Or does she just wish she could? he silently wondered.

"I am, however, endowed with ze aura, and can ñ barely ñ access ze flame."

"Let's start with the aura." It was the only one he had had positively no luck with. "Is there a ceremony, or is it just a mind-trick you use, or something?

Fleur leaned back against the steely-grey stone of the Astronomy Tower. "It was mostly mental exercises," she admitted. "Imagine yourself in a bubble, zen pulling inwards or 'Pretend you are a chasm, pulling every thing into your depths. Since I have so little aura, I never needed much more zen zat."

The quill scratched furiously against the parchment. "And the flame?"

"Oh, zat." There was venom in her voice. "She who taught me was always going on about zat." Fleur removed one hand from the crook of her elbow and clenched it into a fist. Slowly, she opened it, as if pulling the air apart. A small, greenish-blue flame burst to life in her palm. Harry was mesmerized. "Zis is ze largest I could ever make. My teacher was very disappointed, let me tell you. Embrace the flame, pull it into yourself, she always said, Imagine yourself a flower, opening your petals to ze sun." Fleur said, her tone exaggerated and mocking. It was obvious she thought little of her teacher.

"Embrace?" It sounded like a mad notion. "Embrace a flame? Wouldn't it be a better idea to...I dunno, control it? Seize it? So it can't burn anyone you don't want it to?" That was how he had done it. "Wouldn't it just burn you from the inside out?"

"You are talking about forcing ze flame." Fleur shook her head firmly. "Zat is ze very first thing we are taught never to do. Veela can burn zemselves, badly, if zey attempt to muscle zeir way into Floga. No, the flame demands ze utmost caution, and must be gently guided in ze direction you want."

Harry remained silent, contemplating this.

Fleur's advice had seemed completely logical up unto this point, but no matter what perspective Harry took, trying to draw in the flame in the manner she described seemed like a bad idea. For one, his way had been working fine. In fact, it had been when he had tried to calm down, let go of his control over his emotions, that he had been seared. And secondly, it just felt wrong. The notion of leaving his fate to the whims of a fire, subjecting himself to an magical force whose purpose was solely to destroy, struck him as counter-intuitive.

Could the methods used to access Floga differ depending on gender? For that matter, could they be different with Soma and Parousia, too? Had this entire exchange been rendered pointless? Frustration built, and Harry's question slipped out without thinking.

"Fleur, have you ever met any veela named Lucienne?"

Perhaps it was the bluntness and oddity of the question, but Fleur's face went blank for a few seconds. With shock? Surprise? Am I over-analyzing again? Harry could not help it, as he watched her compose an answer.

"Lucienne is a common French name, 'arry. And zere are many veela in France."

That would make sense. But why was Fleur so flustered by the question? Did she know her personally? Or was he just now grasping at straws, now that the value of all her information had been placed in doubt?

"Why?"

Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid... "Just wondering. I think I heard the name in a history book somewhere." Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, yanked the door of the Astronomy Tower open and grasping his wand. "Accio." The floating notebook and quill flew to hand. "Thanks you for help. Have a nice night."

The torches upon the walls of the winding stairs cast dancing shadows as he passed them. A total bust. Or was it? Harry wondered. Nothing more to be done at the moment, I suppose. I still need to find a way past Filch, though...but there's nothing to be done for that, either. Ugh. An odd thought wandered into his head. I wonder what Fred and George would think of me, having a night-time rendezvous with Fleur Delacour. On the Astronomy Tower, no less...heh.

A lightning bolt of inspiration struck him, connecting the two thoughts. A grin rose fiercely upon his face, and he quickened his steps.

Harry waited with baited breath, his Invisibility Cloak draped around him and an ear to the way out of the Common Room. He fought the urge to shake with excitement, but did nothing to dissuade the eager smile that had stayed firmly on his face the entire evening.

The Twins had been dubious of the idea, but Harry still had plenty of gold left over in his vault. Harry had noticed how money had a way of erasing doubts and subverting reasoning in the Weasley family, and the theory proved true once again. Harry stared down at the Marauder's Map, watching as the two dots labeled Fred Weasley and George Weasley came closer and closer to the corner of the corridor of the Fat Lady, where Argus Filch moved around sluggishly, and -

A loud ruckus erupted outside the Common Room. Harry counted the sound of a few Dungbombs, and the ignition of some minor Filibuster Fireworks, before his knowledge of the magical joke goods ran dry. Harry heard Filch curse wildly, and watched as the crotchety Squib's dot pursued the swifter dots of the Weasley Twins down the corridor. Wishing his two rulebreakers-in-arms good luck, Harry pulled the portrait aside and disappeared into the corridors of a slumbering Hogwarts.

Everyone watched the Mother ascend the platform at the All-Mother's feet, the rest of the Matriarchs in a circle behind her in robes of plain white.

Those that could not see from the ground transformed and watched from the air. Most of the males watched from the ground, powerless to take flight as they were, and the females respectfullyascended into the air. Every single veela present could see the Honorable First as she knelt before the burning altar, and waited. Baited breath did not begin to describe the tension in the air; the males could have very well walked upon it.

No one knew precisely when the Passing would come, but they could taste its nearing presence in the air. The moon was high and glaring in the sky, and it was impossible to predict what position was its exact zenith, even with their enhanced eyesight. For nearly an hour they had already been waiting, motionless but for the movement of their wings. The temperature was unfelt, none of the assembled ranks reacting to to the unforgiving heat.

The fire gave a particularly fitful pop, sending a tongue of viridian flame arcing into the sky. There was almost a collective indrawn breath as the fire sorted itself out. It had been nothing, merely timber collapsing as it supplied fuel until it could give no more. T

heir attention did not wane.

Abruptly, like the snap of a finger, the green fire exploded from its fragile confines, a terrific gout of flame scorching the sky and lighting the entire small army of veela like a sustained firework birst. A low sound began among the ranks of the veela, a growl, a low hiss, rising steadily in volume and pitch.

The Passing had arrived.

The Mother lurched to her feet, drawn by invisible puppet strings. Her eyes, no longer pale, glowed a fierce, blinding white, and when she opened her mouth, light emanated from there as well, drowning out whatever scream or passionate cry she might have voiced. The light built within her, her skin slowly glowing, warming up. Then, the brilliant light exploded from her every pore. The light poured out of her body like an unstoppable flood, lifting her up onto the tips of her toes. Then, just as it seemed the light would keep on coming unto infinity, the Mother form collapsed to the wood of the altar, a glassy-eyed corpse. No one paid attention to the body. It was insignificant blood and bone now, a spent and soulless vessel.

The low sound that had begun earlier had reached its peak, veela screaming, thrashing, howling, sobbing, on their knees, staring up in rapturous terror and awe at the enormous body of light that now floated above them, a shifting, changing mass.

The Mother of Veela, in her true form. The souls and minds of all the veela that had ever lived, gathered and meshed together in a single, flawless being. The deity's presence was palpable in the air like water, in the roiling emotions that rattled the trembling frames of every veela present.

It towered above them for several moments, bathing them with light and power, almost hesitant. The noise continued below, as the precious few veela minds that retained some semblance of sanity entertained a single question. Who? Who would be the next to house their Mother's presence?

Many would be surprised afterwards, as one of the veela floating in the air, near the bottom of the large cylinder that surrounded the statue of Hera Argeia, suddenly jerked, her breath leaving her in a whoosh and her golden eyes going cloudy white. The veela near her all moved away, watching as her body suddenly arched in a spasm, suspended in the air despite the fact that her wings had stopped beating. Most of the time, it was one of the Matriarchs that was chosen as the next vessel. But veela chosen outside the ruling body was not unheard of, in cases of particular strength or potential.

The Mother of Veela stiffened in the air, as well, before the lights swirled up into a river, and shot towards the new chosen avatar. The new Mother's arms opened wide to receive it.

Suddenly, from the crowds on the ground, rivulets of green light shot upwards, catching the newly chosen Mother in midair. The excitement and euphoria of the veela gathered turned to screams and shrieks of agony and grief as the vessel fell to earth, and landed, spread-eagled on the ground, like a dead bird, the lights following her downwards.

The veelas' horror turned to rage, which turned inwards upon themselves. Soon, the mass of veela became a snarling riot, limbs thrashing around, searching for the offenders, flailing desperately to try and inflict the full punishment of their sin upon them. The once-organized people had become a roiling sea of anarchy and animals.

That was, until a titanic aura came crashing down upon all of them, like the fist of an angry god.

All those near enough found their eyes drawn inexorably to the broken form of the new Mother, who rose anew from the ground, eyes glowing brightly in the darkness, with mud and sternness mixed on her face. Cries of joy strangled in the throat were all that even the strongest-willed veela could manage, crushed flat as they were under her colossal parousia.

"HUMANS, REVEAL YOURSELVES."

The voice reverberated throughout the crowd of veela, each hearing the Mother's voice as if it were from a loudspeaker planted on the inside of their skulls. There was the soft sound of Invisibility Cloaks fluttering to the ground, and suddenly, there were males present who had not been visible before. Human males.

"STAND ASIDE, MY CHILDREN."

The veela all parted, stepping away from the wizards who stood rooted to their respective spots, all staring blankly at the Mother, as if she were the only person, only thing that existed in the entirety of the world. A thousand upon a thousand eyes watched as she approached the nearest wizard, a stocky, young fellow of sandy hair and brown eyes. He held a wand loosely in one hand, but there was no threat of him using it. Upon his chest,was a tunic embroidered with dozens of large, weighty diamonds. As the Mother approached, each precious stone cracked, and fell from the shirt, turning to sparkling dust before they hit the ground.

"Who sent you here, my child?" The Mother asked, her voice, even quiet as it was, warped by her parousia.

The human blinked blearily. When he spoke, his voice held a strong English accent. "I...don't know."

"Can you remember anything?"

He smiled innocently. "Pretty red lights."

The Mother sighed, her sternness fading to sorrow as she stared at the Imperius-ed man. "You are going to die now, my child," she informed him sadly.

His lips twitched downwards for a fraction of a second ñ some glimmer of what he truly thought of the idea under all the weight of her aura ñ before he smiled again. "Okay. Will it hurt?" The man's voice was filled with childish curiosity.

The Mother reigned in her parousia, bundling it into a tight sphere as she had done so many times before, and turned away.

"Considerably." She answered.

The Mother then walked away, towards her tent, leaving the helpless assassins to the whims of her children. It didn't take long for the screaming to follow her.

Halfway through the tunnel under the Whomping Willow, heading towards the Shrieking Shack, Harry abruptly screamed and collapsed, as pain unlike anything, anything, he had ever felt before coursed through him like a flood. Thinking back on it later, he would equate the sensation to what he thought death would feel like.

The pain vanished eerily quickly, leaving behind only the memory and a headache, which was comforted by a sudden cold rush as the Voice, which had been uncharacteristically silent for quite a while, hopped aboard his consciousness.

"What...what the hell was that?" The Voice answered with extreme satisfaction.

A good start.

It took a good couple of hours before Alkaios judged himself recovered enough to disentangle himself from the heap of warm bodies he woke up in, and another good half-hour before he could conquer his terrible hangover to the point where he could stumble his way towards the Mother's tent, his head buzzing with pain and panic. There several veela like him, strong of body and mind, that were wandering around too, and they let him pass without comment, recognizing him on sight, or perhaps too sore themselves to care.

He found her preparing her morning tea ñ blueberry, for some reason, it was always blueberry tea ñ humming contentedly under her breath. Alkaios gathered his wits, trying to formulate a method of telling how wrong it was that she was so relaxed the day after she had nearly been killed, but was cut off, as she glanced at him and smiled wryly.

"In a hurry are we, my son?"

Alkaios looked down at himself, and felt whatever was left of his dignity shrivel up and die an ignominous death. He had been in such a hurry to reach the Mother that he had come in what he had fell asleep in. Which was nothing. He squeezed his eyelids shut, and tried to ignore his embarrassment in order to address the issue at hand.

"There's a robe on the chair."

Of course, it would be much easier to remain professional while clothed. Alkaios snatched the robe and wrapped it around himself. He was the Mother's personal servant and spymaster. He would not blush like a downy hatchling.

"Mother, are you well?" He asked, distinctly feeling the dent in his pride as he asked.

"Hm? Oh, you mean last night." The First waved a hand. "People have been trying to kill me for years. It's nothing to fret over. Though, I must say, that was the most successful attempt they've made so far. They could have chosen a better spell, however."

Alkaios felt his gut twist into a hard knot of guilt and self-loathing. The Mother sent him a stern look.

"It must have been that wizard's master." He muttered darkly. "His arrival was too coincidential to be anything else. Those men were positioned too close to the altar, and you know how difficult it is to get a place that near. The human must have been distracting you in order to give them time to move in." Meanwhile, his fce was getting steadily darker and darker. That human has just earned himself an appointment with me.

"None of that, now. There's no need to get rude. I'll have you know, I am in perfect health. Of course-" She added, glancing at herself, raising one arm and lifting one of her own now richly golden locks of hair. "-I will have to pound this new body into shape. I chose young Faye here for her potential, not for her existing skill."

"Of course, Mother," Alkaios said, breathing deeply, running through a quick mental exercise. He tucked away Lucius Malfoy for another time. "I will work on tracking down those behind this at once."

"Yes, you will," The Mother replied bluntly. "Now, I believe you had something to tell me, last night, did you not?"

Alkaios pulled the details of his previous assignment to his mind. "Yes. And it is as you suspected. The situation in France has not changed." A brief flicker of disgust came and left. "The previous Honorable Third, the Lady Delacour, still rules in all but name. The new Honorable Third is nothing but her puppet. The living conditions of my brethren have not changed."

"Was that all? Carry on then. We need to identify who sent those assassins. I suspect the Dark Lord, moody young brat as he is, but this seems a tad too obtuse to be him. Also, I somewhat doubt he would try to shine my palms with gold and then try to stab me in the back. Unless perhaps Lucius was trying to warn me, or perhaps sway me before it became neccesary...hm..."

Alkaios blinked at the sudden dismissal. Feeling indignation rise up before he could quell it, he spoke. "Will you simply let it go? Mother, what she does to them is torture, it's-!"

"Alkaios!" Her voice was like a whiplash, and for all of his years he jumped. Her brow was set in a hard line, that could have made and had made men much harder than him quail. "I have never intruded upon how my eldest daughters look after their own children, and I do not intend to start now. You will mind your place."

"Y...yes, Mother. Forgive me." He whispered, mortified.

"You know your duty," she snapped.

Alkaios made a passable rendition of a bow, before turning to leave. Just as quickly, the Mother called him back.

"Alkaios?" Her voice suddenly had lost all traces of ire, and was now vague and flighty. But that was her; moods came and left the Mother like quicksilver. "Do you think it at all...ominous, that such a successful attempt took place on the day of the Great Daedala, our most sacred holiday?" She sounded for all the world as if she were making idle conversation.

He licked his lips. "I do not place worth in baseless superstition, Mother; I am already paranoid enough as it is." Alkaios joked weakly.

He was unnerved when the Mother did not respond, merely lifting her teacup, examining the fine blue cornflowers painted on the rim.

"Hm...well, start your search in Britain. Determine whether it truly was the Dark Lord that organized this attempt upon my life, for if it is, then we will very soon be at war." She spoke casually, but there was a definite hard note, where there had not before. The Mother was angry.

"Yes, Mother."

What else could one say in the face of an enraged goddess?


End file.
